Wake-up Call
by batE
Summary: [It's back! And with a new chapter] A phenomenon hits Gotham that requires Terry to examine dreams, nightmares and the fine line between them
1. 1

Author's note: Sorry for the delay in new material. Real life bites sometimes  
  
Disclaimer: Do I look like I own anything?  
  
Chapter One  
  
  
  
The thin, pale man shot a nervous look toward the door. It hadn't been fully closed, and he steamed inwardly at that. He'd specifically asked for privacy . . . complete privacy - the door was to have been shut and locked - he wanted to keep the wind and prying eyes out. But it wasn't. This deal was already getting off to a bad start.  
  
His mouth twisted into a grimace as he gazed through the slight aperture and saw the foot of one of his companion's guards. Merrill had brought his hired guns - two of them, at least - probably more. And Merrill himself was no doubt armed. The bony man stifled a groan; why all the cowboys-and- Indians nonsense? This was a business venture, not a video game. But he knew that it wasn't in Chaise Merrill's nature to do anything without fanfare. He knew that and accepted it. But would it have killed him to close the frigging door?  
  
"So, Jeremy, do we have a deal?"  
  
Jeremy Wittinger forced his eyes away from the door and onto his companion, hoping that the annoyance didn't show too plainly in his face. Merrill was annoying, but Wittinger knew he needed this score. He was tired of living on the state's charity; he wanted, no, he needed to strike out on his own. And this alliance with Merrill, temporary as it would be, would allow him to do that.  
  
"I believe we have reached an understanding, Mr. Merrill," Wittinger nodded, "as long as my payment request is met."  
  
"Oh sure," Merrill smiled a wide, toothy grin. "No problem. And you're sure about the effects of this little mixture of yours?"  
  
"Quite," Wittinger looked grave. "Both the catalyst and neutralizing agents have been tested. They are absolutely -''  
  
"Tested?" the shorter, stockier man looked puzzled. "You tested this stuff? On humans?"  
  
Wittinger fought the impulse to roll his eyes. Of course I tested it on humans, you ninny. What else would I use? Geraniums? "Yes, Mr. Merrill," he said aloud. "On humans. I did several tests."  
  
Merrill looked skeptical. "I find it hard to believe you found willing participants."  
  
"You'd be surprised at what people will do for money," he rummaged through a pocket on his sports jacket and plucked out a shiny disc. "I recorded the entire experimentation process so that you can see for yourself."  
  
"Hmmmm, perhaps I will," Merrill took the disc, looking at it thoughtfully before tucking it into his inside suit pocket. "But there probably is no need. I trust you, Jeremy. You're brilliant. You're loyal. I can trust you." He paused. "Though, of course, you won't see a single credit until I see the results firsthand. Nothing personal, of course. Just good business."  
  
"Of course," Jeremy's eyes shifted to the door again. It was still open, the foot was still there, and from the sound of it, it had begun to rain. Good. Wittinger bit back a smile. He willed the rain to pour in torrents . . . all the better to soak Merrill's rented thugs and ruin their expensive suits. "But it won't be long. I've already lain in a store of the neutralizing agent. One the catalyst compound hits Gotham, you'll be running through the neutralizer like . . .well, like water."  
  
Merrill laughed heartily, slapping the thinner man soundly across the back, nearly sending him flying in the process.  
  
"Like water! Oh, I like that, Jeremy. I like that," his guffaws echoed around the small space. "Now who ever said you didn't have a sense of humor?"  
  
Wittinger didn't crack a smile. "I did."  
  
Merrill continued to laugh. "Well, you were wrong about yourself, Jeremy. Hoo wee . . . you were wrong." He chuckled a moment longer before resuming his serious demeanor, the stern expression looking out of place on the cherubic face. "Now . . . you said you had a sample for me?"  
  
Wittinger nodded and drew out a tiny vial from the depths of his sports jacket. Offering it to the shorter man, he watched with smug pride as Chaise eyed the pinkish liquid in the vial. Unstopping the cork, he smelled it. His eyebrows raised, he sniffed again.  
  
"Odorless," Wittinger intoned. "And even more important, it won't react with the proteins in the product, so there will be no risk at all of detection."  
  
"I suppose it doesn't have any taste, either?"  
  
"That is correct. The neutralizer also has no taste or smell. Trust me, Mr. Merrill-'' he broke off, noticing the forlorn look on his companion's face. "What? What's wrong?"  
  
"Well, I can understand not wanting it to smell, but no taste, either? That's kinda boring, don't you think? Couldn't you have spiced it up some with some pepper? Maybe a nice jalapeno flavor? Or -''  
  
"Mr. Merrill," Jeremy's tone was icy. "I'm a scientist, not a chef. Trust me. This is what you want. Besides, it wouldn't do to have the antidote tasting of pepper . . . or anything else . . . would it?"  
  
"Yeah, I suppose you're right. Speaking of the antidote, any chance I could get a sample of that, too?"  
  
Wittinger pulled another vial from his pocket. This tube contained a clear liquid, and Merrill's eyes shone.  
  
"Excellent work. Your time away hasn't dulled your skills a wit."  
  
My time away . . . how quaint. He says it as if I was on a lovely tropical vacation and not a festering jail cell. And all of it . . . all of it. . . was his fault. Wittinger's eyes narrowed. "Well, I must admit, I wasn't exactly idle during my period of incarceration." He hesitated. "The warden found myriad uses for my . . . talents."  
  
"I'll bet," Merrill nodded. "I'll just bet. Well," he straightened, "I think we're done here. For now, anyway. You do have the delivery instructions?"  
  
"I do. The canisters will be at the appointed place at the appointed time - day after tomorrow. Your men will know what to do?"  
  
"Oh, yes indeed," Merrill gazed transfixed at the two vials in his hands. "They'll know." He sighed dreamily, continuing to stare into his palms. "They'll all know. Soon, this city will know how wrong it was to cross me . . . and how wrong it was to write me off as if I didn't matter." Merrill looked up with a grin that made Wittinger's blood run cold.  
  
"Yes, soon they'll know," Merrill said softly. "I lived out my nightmare. Now it is time for the people of Gotham to live out theirs."  
  
*  
  
Max Gibson entered BaliBurgers and was immediately met with a wall of sound as confused and varied as the people who were jammed into the little restaurant. She glanced to her left and saw Nelson Nash, surrounded by his entourage, holding court at a large corner booth. Across from that group sat a bunch of kids that she recognized from her advanced astrochemical class. They were hard at work on . . . something, four heads bent over laptops and plates of burgers.  
  
Hell of a place to try to study. She shook her head as she snaked through the press of the crowd. I wonder what's up . . . I didn't think anybody even knew about this place. Winding her way to the other side of the restaurant, her eyes swept over the booths at the far wall, each of them seemingly filled with yammering, snacking people. Her eyes narrowed and then widened as she peered toward a table in the rear and caught sight of a well-worn leather jacket hanging from a chair, one sleeve dangling close to the floor.  
  
Max reached the table, and stopped for a moment, dead. Shock colored her features as her brain processed the almost incomprehensible sight. There was Terry McGinnis, all right. He was in the booth alone, oddly enough considering the crowd. Even more incredible, though, considering the music wailing from the speakers and the decibel level in general, he was fast asleep, his forehead pressed against the table.  
  
She stared for a moment, a small smile on her lips. If any one could sleep through this din, it'd be him. She'd seen him earlier that day, and though he seemed to be okay, she could tell that he was on the verge of crashing. It seemed almost a shame to wake him - he looked so innocent and peaceful. But ...  
  
"Ter," she gently shook his shoulder. "Hey, McGinnis ... rise and shine!"  
  
He shifted slightly, grunting a little, but not lifting his head. Max sighed. This wasn't going to be pretty.  
  
"Terry? Terry! Come on, wake up!" she shook him harder. "Up and at 'em ... let's go!"  
  
No response. She frowned. She'd tried to do it easy, but now it was time to take the kid gloves off. Lifting the books she'd picked up for her 20th Century lit project to eye level, she waited a beat before letting the books fall just inches from Terry's head.  
  
The ensuing clatter had the desired result as Terry started up in alarm, wincing as he banged his knee on the table. "Wha-, what?" he looked up, blinking in confusion. "Oh, hey, Max," he ran a hand tiredly over his hair. "Sorry about that. I was just resting my eyes ..."  
  
"I guess I don't have to ask what you were up to last night."  
  
He yawned expansively. "Do you ever?"  
  
"Nope. Anyway, it was all over the Web this morning - Batman vs. a gang of arms smugglers. Twenty of them! How'd you pull that one off?"  
  
"Beats me. I didn't know there were that many until they all came piling out of the hoverjet they'd stole. It was like the old days in the circus -- you know, with all the clowns coming out of a tiny car?" Terry stopped as a harried waitress dropped off his order. "Want something, Max? They're running a special on Beefy Burgers."  
  
"No, thanks. Late lunch. So, what kinda firepower were they trying to bring in?"  
  
"Well, they weren't pop guns. The suit got a major workout. It's going to be out of commission at least a day."  
  
"Humph. Well, you could have called me. You said I'd be able to help sometimes," she glared at him.  
  
"Max ... what exactly would you have been able to do against twenty very angry men with very big guns?"  
  
She frowned a moment, thinking. "I could have created a diversion or something. Kept them occupied while you dumped the cargo. That way, you wouldn't have had to worry about getting plugged."  
  
"Kept them occupied?" Terry shook his head. "Max, I don't even want to tell you how that sounds." Tall, pink-haired and mahogany-skinned, she no doubt would have attracted the smugglers' attention, Terry knew. But with so many, she'd more than likely would have been overpowered very quickly, and he shuddered to think how they would then want to be kept "occupied."  
  
"Look, can you be mad at me next week or something? The pissed-at-Terry card is kinda full today."  
  
"Uh-oh ... what'd you do to slag off you-know-who this time?" she leaned close.  
  
"Amazingly enough, Wayne hasn't chewed me out in," he checked his watch, "almost eight hours. Of course, he's been asleep for the past seven-and-a- half . . ."  
  
"Your mom, then? She catch you sneaking through the window at daybreak again?"  
  
"Nope," Terry's expression hardened. "Dana's ticked at me ... as usual."  
  
"What is it now? I thought you were off the hook this week - she's going on that debate-a-thon with Chelsea and the rest of the debate team. Weren't they leaving today? Chicago's the first stop, right?"  
  
"Yeah ... but today at lunch, right before she left, we took one of those compatibility tests that they have on the Web..." he rested his chin in his hands, shutting his eyes wearily. "You know, the one where you put in your names and it's supposed to tell you how perfect you are for each other?"  
  
"Oh boy. What happened?"  
  
"Let's just say we failed ... big time," he took a vicious bite out of his burger. "I didn't even know you could get a negative score."  
  
"Those things are scams," Max shook her head. "There's no way you can rate compatibility using just names. Why'd you two even bother?"  
  
"Blade was talking it up in biochem -- said it was 100 percent accurate for her and Nelson."  
  
"Like that proves anything. Those two are more on-again, off-again than a vid-link switch."  
  
"Mmm. Well, anyway, we took the stupid thing and it said that we would make perfect acquaintances. We didn't even score high enough for friendship."  
  
"Glacial," Max studied him with inquisitive eyes. "But why would she be mad at you? You couldn't help what you were named ..."  
  
"She didn't think I got outraged enough about it," he looked bewildered. "She said I just shrugged it off, like I didn't care."  
  
"What did you say?"  
  
"I told her not worry about it. I just didn't think it was worth getting worked up over it," he sighed. "And since the other results were pretty weird, too -''  
  
"What other results?"  
  
"Well, Dana wanted to see if the thing was busted or something, so we punched in other names, paired ourselves with other people . . . just for fun," he grinned slightly. "Dana and Nelson have almost zilch compatibility, but she and Corey would be perfect for each other, according to the computer."  
  
"Dana and Corey Cavalleri?" Max smiled, too. "Yeah, right. Could you imagine him trying to get her to go to a Sentry convention? She'd have a spaz."  
  
"Uh-huh. I'm not compatible with Blade, sorta compatible with Chelsea, not very with Jamie, pretty compatible with you, not at all compatible with Ms. Pinto -''  
  
"Hold it," she looked surprised. "You put in my name?"  
  
"Yeah. We scored an 82 percent ... the highest on my side. Dana and Corey were 85 percent. Wild, huh?"  
  
"Hmmm ..." she seemed lost in thought a moment. "What name did you try?"  
  
He looked up, confused. "What?"  
  
"Did you use your full name or what? It makes a difference, you know. Maybe Terry and Dana work better than Terrance and Dana."  
  
"It said use full name. Whatever. It's stupid. I think Dana was just looking to pick a fight. And that's her problem, not mine," he stared down at his plate, toying with the last remaining fries.  
  
"True," she knew that tone - it meant change the subject, quickly. "So, with the suit down, what are you doing tonight?"  
  
"Taking Matt to the mall. Mom's birthday is coming up, and this is the only chance me and the twip will have to snag a gift for her," he drained his glass. "You up for some shopping? You could be the tiebreaker."  
  
"Sure. Cheezy Dan's afterward?"  
  
"You and Matt would frag me if I said no, right?"  
  
"You are a fast learner, McGinnis," she grinned.  
  
*  
  
Sam Jenks wiped the sweat coursing down his face, wondering for the millionth time how he could be warm in a meat locker.  
  
Temperature controls must be on the fritz, he thought sourly, watching his group of "aides." They puttered around the dimness of the warehouse, guided only by the smallest of flashlights and the slice of moonlight coming in from the warehouse's plate-glass windows, prying open containers of meat, dousing the contents with a pinkish liquid and resealing the crates with a laser-powered soldering gun. Jenks' mouth twisted in disgust. He didn't know and didn't want to know what it was his guys were pouring on the meat. Didn't matter; they'd been paid, and he was a vegetarian. The guys who weren't were given a list of places to avoid buying meat from.  
  
The stocky man mopped his brow again, irritably. It was really hot in there. The stuff probably would've gone bad without their help. Shoddy operation. Bad way to run a business.  
  
"That's it, boss," a man in a black turtleneck drew near, careful not to shine his light in Jenks' face. "We're all done, finally. Everything's tight as a drum."  
  
"Good. You got the stuff out back?"  
  
"Yes, sir. John's getting the fire started."  
  
"Great," Jenks nodded. "Let's get this over with. It stinks in here and it's too slagging hot."  
  
"Hot sir? But we're in a meat locker ..."  
  
Jenks glowered. "Forget it. Let's just get it done."  
  
"Yes sir. The fire should get rid of everything in about -'' the man trailed off as a thump was heard outside. Close by.  
  
"What was that?" Jenks growled. "I thought you said everyone had gone to the place."  
  
"They did, Mr. J. They were putting the wood in the pit."  
  
"Then what the ..." Jenks went to the window and looked out. All seemed still and quiet.  
  
"I don't see nothin'," his voice was nonchalant, but he felt uneasy. This whole setup seemed weird. But then, the guy who set up the thing was pretty weird, himself. But that didn't matter, either. Money was money whether it came from a perfectly sane crook or a crazy one.  
  
"It was probably just a dog or something knocking over stuff," Jenks inhaled deeply, instantly regretting it as the sharp smell of freshly slaughtered meat hit his nostrils. "Let's get outside. I need some air -''  
  
His sentence was punctuated by the shattering of glass followed by a streak of black. Jenks and his man hit the floor as the glass flew, covering their ears and faces as the shards scattered around them.  
  
"A little late for a barbecue, isn't it?"  
  
Jenks looked up sharply, his mouth dropping open in dismay as he saw the dark figure crouched in the window. He struggled to rise to his feet, feeling for the gun in his waistband.  
  
"I would've brought chips or something, but I was in a hurry," Batman hopped lightly into the room. "But I didn't come completely empty-handed," a batarang sang through the air, knocking Jenks' weapon and his aide's flashlight to the floor.  
  
"Damn!" Jenks rushed behind the still-dazed guard, who had recovered just enough to draw a blaster. "Slag him!"  
  
Firing wildly, the guard swore in frustration, noting the near- impossibility of getting a clear shot on the shadowy figure. "Come on, Bat freak!" Jenks yelled, backing up. "Come out and fight like a man!"  
  
"You've been watching too much television." The voice came from behind him, and Jenks whirled around just in time to receive a kick in the gut. He went to his knees in pain as Batman shimmered into view over him, deftly tying Jenks' arms and legs with a length of cord. As a finishing touch, he tore a bit of Jenks' shirt, using the bit of cloth as a gag. "I hope you're wearing your long johns, because you'll be here for awhile."  
  
Batman stood and stretched, relaxing slowly and languidly before drawing in his arm and delivering a sharp elbow to the belly of the guard who thought he was being quiet in sneaking up behind him. Taking hold of the groaning man's sweater, Batman flipped him over his shoulder, letting fly a bola, which tied the guard up in mid-air. The man fell to the ground with a resounding thump and was still.  
  
"Snug as a bug," Batman nudged the unconscious man with the toe of his boot before striding over to the still-struggling Jenks. He kneeled close to Jenks' head, grabbing the struggling man by the shirt and pulling him up.  
  
"All right, listen: I'm insulated - you're not. So the sooner you tell me what's going on here, the sooner you can get out of this icebox and into a nice, warm jail cell," he lowered the gag. "Sound good?"  
  
Jenks drew a ragged breath and spit squarely into the Bat's face. He recoiled slightly, wiping the spittle off his cowl in measured disgust.  
  
"And I just had that cleaned. I'm sending you the bill."  
  
~Forget him, McGinnis,~ Bruce Wayne's voice came through loud, clear and impatient through the cowl's receiver. ~I'm picking up something hot in the vicinity of the warehouse. About 20 feet from the rear. Someone's burning something.~  
  
"I hope it's hot dogs. I haven't eaten all day." Batman stood, cautiously making his way to the back of the warehouse. Canisters were piled everywhere, prompting Terry to stay on his guard. He adjusted the infrared sensors on his visor, scanning for heat signatures. "The place looks pretty empty. Maybe these guys were just hungry . . . decided that the burgers are always overcooked at Cheezy Dan's - which is true - and just decided to do their own."  
  
~You ~are~ hungry, aren't you?~  
  
"One sec," Terry turned at the sound of footfalls coming from the direction in which he was moving. A door opened, admitting a warm gust of air and a tangle of voices.  
  
"Boss? Mr. Jenks? You okay?" The voices were close. "Mr. Jenks?"  
  
"More of the same on the way," Batman muttered into the receiver. "Good thing I'm dressed for company." He shifted behind a stack of crates just as a group of men, all in black, burst into the space with their guns drawn.  
  
"Mr. Jenks? Mr. Jenks? Dammit, where's the freakin' lights?"  
  
A flashlight was clicked on then, and the pale glowing circle swept across the room, coming to rest, eventually, on the form of the knocked-out guard.  
  
"Slagit! Don's down!" There was a rush of footsteps.  
  
"He all right?"  
  
Silence. Then, "Yeah . . . he's breathin', but he's out cold. Where the hell is Jenks?"  
  
"Hey . . . listen . . ." the room grew quiet, and in the silence, a frenzied tapping and what appeared to be muffled groans could be heard. "It's coming from over there! Get the light over near the door!"  
  
The light swung around, and shone directly in Jenks face, causing him to squint against the glare. Panicked, his men ran toward him, and all gathered around as two of the men worked on Jenks' bonds. "What the hell happened in here, Mr. J?"  
  
Jenks wriggled wildly, his words muffled by the gag.  
  
"What's he saying?"  
  
"Dunno. Steve, get the gag." There was another scuffling sound as the cloth was unwound. "There we go. Now again, boss, what was you saying?"  
  
Jenks' eyes widened as he glanced over Steve's shoulder. "Look out!"  
  
The guard had no time to react as Batman, having launched himself from the stack of crates, plowed into him, knocking him and Jenks to the floor. The others, stunned momentarily, recovered and began to fire wildly, narrowly missing each other in their haste. The Bat rocketed upward and out of the line of gunfire.  
  
Landing on a beam far above the crowd, he crouched in wait. He had the advantage, he knew . . . it was dark, and though his visor allowed him to get direct locations on the men, they, in turn could not see him. He grinned. Wouldn't even need to go into camouflage for this one.  
  
A bullet zipped close - uncomfortably so - by his ear, and Batman flinched, eyes narrowing. Time to wrap up.  
  
He eased to the edge of the beam, getting a fix on the location of the largest group of sentries. Letting fly a quartet of batarangs, he smiled in satisfaction when he heard yelling and the sound of firearms being knocked from hands and onto the floor.  
  
"Dammit, where is he? Doesn't this place have any lights?"  
  
"Screw it," Jenks ran toward the door. "We're done here. Let's blow this joint."  
  
"Bruce . . . please tell me he's not being literal," Terry murmured.  
  
~I'm not detecting any explosives, but be careful.~  
  
"Aren't I always?" He soared down from his perch, knocking a fleeing man to the ground, struggling as the man tried to rise. Dodging his captive's wild swings, Batman went to pin the man's arms behind his back, but was stunned momentarily by a blow to the head. He swept around and took the assailant down with a kick to the leg.  
  
The sound of an engine's firing drew the Bat' s attention, and he looked up in time to see a hover transport fire up and away at top speed. "I think I ruined their appetites. Guess I should go after them and try to make amends."  
  
Let them go for now, Wayne replied. I've got a tracer on the vehicle. The fire I was picking up seems to have died out on its own. I wonder . . .  
  
"Yeah, me, too," Batman strode over to the man whom he'd swept off his feet and grabbed him roughly by the short. "All right. As much as I love talking, I'd like to give someone else a turn tonight. Namely you. So why don't you start by telling me what you were doing here, who your friends are and what they were burning up out there. Don't jerk me around, and we'll all be alright."  
  
"Please! Please, it wasn't me! None of us knew anything!" the man's voice was shrill with terror. "Honest! We just stood around and kept watch. That's what they paid us to do. . . just stand and keep watch."  
  
"They who? And just what were you keeping watch on?"  
  
"I don't know; I swear it! I'd never seen the guys before."  
  
"Let me get this straight . . . you come out in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night, break into a meat-packing plant and start a nice, big bonfire all for a bunch of guys you'd never seen before? Sorry, but I'm on a strict no-B.S. diet. You're going to have to feed me something else."  
  
"It's the truth, I'm telling you!" he gulped. "Me and a buddy - Harry - we work security for Gotham Cryogenics. Well, least we did 'til about a week back when we got laid off. Couple days ago, Harry calls and says an old friend has a job and needs a couple of people who know how to handle a blaster. Said he was paying well . . . real well. I got a family. A wife . . . kids . . . I needed the creds."  
  
"Uh huh. This old friend of Harry's got a name?"  
  
"Jersey. Harry called him Jersey, I think. Maybe it was Jerry. I. . . I don't remember!"  
  
"What's this Jersey guy look like?"  
  
"I don't know. Never met the guy . . . he's Harry's friend, not mine . . ."  
  
"So you don't know if he was here tonight."  
  
"No . . . I don't . . . know. We was working for a guy named Jenks. He pulled up in a big hoverjet and said he was in charge. Told us to stay out and shoot anything that moved. And we did . . . 'til we heard scuffling and came in here."  
  
"What were they doing in here?"  
  
"I tell you, I don't know! We was paid to stay out and we stayed out," the man looked wildly around. "Where's Harry? He was right behind me 'til you decked me. What'd you do to him?"  
  
"Your pals took their magic carpet outta here . . . and unless Harry's the guy on the floor over there, he went with them."  
  
"What?! No . . . no! They wouldn't leave me here . . . Harry wouldn't have left me! He promised. He . .. he . . . he . . ." the man began to sob, the tears running down his face. "He promised. I got a wife, kids. He promised."  
  
"Looks like you were expendable," Batman let him go, and the man crumpled on the floor into a heap, still bawling. "No friends, no creds, and jail. Not your lucky day."  
  
~Terry . . . get back here immediately,~ Wayne's sounded agitated. ~The police are on their way; let them handle the cleanup.~  
  
"What? What happened?" Terry hissed. "Wayne? What's wrong?"  
  
~The burglars' transport just exploded over Gotham Harbor. I'm scanning the debris field, but so far, it doesn't look like anything could've come out alive from that.~  
  
Batman's jaw set, his eye falling on the hysterical guard, who'd crawled into a corner next to his unconscious friend and settled into a sobbing heap.  
  
"I stand corrected," he murmured.  
  
*  
  
"Wow . . . talk about getting burned," Max scooted to the edge of her bed, transfixed. "What were they doing there, anyway?"  
  
Terry, listlessly thumbing through her vid-disc collection, shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine."  
  
"What'd the cops find?"  
  
"Bruce says they didn't get anything. Ask me, they weren't looking too hard. Nothing was stolen and most of the guys who broke in went kaboom in that transport blast," Terry stared up at the ceiling. "So, you got any?"  
  
"Any what?"  
  
"Guesses. I'm fresh out."  
  
"Really?" a smile spread across her face. "You're letting me in on this one?"  
  
"When did you hear me say that?"  
  
Her smile grew. "Just now."  
  
"I'm just making conversation . . . but if you happen to have any thoughts..."  
  
"Well, give me a little more. Did you see anything there?"  
  
"Not really. A couple of crates had been opened; there was that fire in the back," he sighed. "Guy I collared didn't seem to know much."  
  
"Open crates . . . you check that out? Guys could've been sneaking in the genetically altered stuff. Remember that whole mess a couple years ago?"  
  
"Yep . . . first and last time I considered giving up Beefy Burgers. But I didn't see anything, and Bruce said the cops ran through the place with a fine-tooth comb. Zilch."  
  
"Hmmm . . . maybe they were bringing something in. Drugs or guns or chemicals, maybe. Stashed them in the crates and went to pick it up."  
  
"Wayne thought of that, but the police didn't find anything in the transport except a lot of twisted metal and burnt-up bad guys. Guy I caught swore no one went in or out after his buddies got there, so there wasn't anybody to hand off any product to."  
  
"And then there's the explosion . . ."  
  
"Yeah. That's the weirdest part. Cops did find where the bomb had been stashed. On the hoverjet's engine. And - this is the really whacked-out part -- it worked on a remote detonator."  
  
Her eyes widened. "So somebody had the controls . . . and a finger on the button."  
  
"Yup. But nobody knows who that somebody is or why he'd burn his own guys. It could've been a rival gang who just happened to rig up the bomb and decided to wait until they'd finished the job before they pressed the button. Or not. It just doesn't make any sense."  
  
"You know, it could have been a blind."  
  
He blinked. "A blind?"  
  
"Sure. A runaround. Something to keep you busy while they did some real dirt somewhere else," Max looked thoughtful. "After all that food-tampering trouble the city had a few years ago, they had to figure that a break-in at Gotham's biggest meat-processing plant would bring out the troops."  
  
"Hmmm . . . maybe. But what could they have been doing to want to set up something so elaborate?"  
  
"The zillion-dollar question. So, I guess we'd better get started. I'll start checking into this Jenks guy and work my way down."  
  
"Way ahead of you. Bruce ran all the guys through Interpol. I've got the records. Haven't found much, but-''  
  
"It's not so much where you look, Ter, but how," she lifted an eyebrow. "Interpol's got a way of muddling even the simplest thing. You should know that by now."  
  
"Yeah, yeah," he groused. "You can lecture me all you want tonight. Mom's taking the squirt out to commune with his fellow brats. Come over, bring the laptop, I'll make popcorn. We'll make a night of it."  
  
"Tonight?" Max looked chagrined. "Much as I'd like to, I can't. My biogenetics-interfacing group's meeting in about an hour. We've got a project due and a lot of ground to cover."  
  
"So come over after. I'll order cheesy squares. After hours of talking about gene-lacing, you'll need 'em."  
  
"I know," she smiled slightly. "That's why Jared and I are heading out after the group splits. We're going to that new place downtown with the anti-grav dance floor. Schway, huh?"  
  
"The Linderhop? Very schway. They did a whole piece about it on Entertainment Last Night."  
  
"Yeah. Might be a good place for you to take Dana."  
  
"Maybe. So this thing with Jared . . . it's getting serious?"  
  
"Maybe," she smiled slightly. "Did you know his stepdad's getting out soon? Turns out some bigwig appellate judge was Mr. Tate's frat buddy. Jared and his mom are jazzed."  
  
"Cool," Terry nodded, remembering Jim Tate's brief spin as "Armory," a masked character who'd gone around Gotham with an arsenal of high-tech, highly destructive weapons. "I'm glad for you two. At least somebody I know is having a social life."  
  
"Poor Ter," she patted his shoulder. "I'd offer to trade with you, but those tights, my friend, would have to go."  
  
"Maybe you could tell Wayne that. He sure hasn't listened to me when I've said it."  
  
*  
  
"I just wish you hadn't done it, that's all. It complicates things."  
  
Though his voice was calm, Wittinger had to fight the effort to smash his fist through Merrill's smarmy image on the vid-link. It wouldn't do much good in actuality, but it would so soothe his soul. "You said damages would be kept to a minimum."  
  
"It couldn't be helped," Merrill's face and voice were serene. "The Bat showed up. And we agreed that all of the evidence would have to be . . . disposed of."  
  
"I know. But a bomb, Chaise? Thirteen men dead means thirteen families that are going to press Gotham police department to probe for answers. This is not what I bargained for, and you know it."  
  
"Relax, Jeremy. I did my own investigation. The police have apparently finished theirs, and the product has been let go. It's out on the market as we speak; that is what's important. All is under way. You needn't worry. The plan is fully in motion."  
  
"Killing was not in the plan."  
  
Merrill sighed deeply. "Jeremy, even the most seamless plans benefit from a little . . . tweaking. Don't worry about families . . . those individuals lived very shifty lives. I doubt seriously they will be missed. Now get some sleep. We will be up late the next few nights, I believe . . . just like everyone else," he chuckled. "Good night."  
  
Wittinger severed the link with a scowl, staring for a long time at the screen after it had gone blank. Merrill hadn't changed. Hadn't changed a whit. And as such, what he had coming, he deserved, in Wittinger's opinion. Oh, it would be marvelous to see Merrill's face then, when all of his careful plans blew up in his face.  
  
It would be marvelous. Wittinger allowed himself a tiny smile. But not yet. Not yet.  
  
*  
  
"Chelsea knows just about every store on the Magnificent Mile," Dana's voice crackled through the receiver of Terry's cell phone. "And we hit almost every one. . . it really takes the pressure off."  
  
"Uh huh," Terry cradled the phone between ear and shoulder, studying the names, dates and places that scrolled down the screen of his laptop. He grimaced in annoyance. Nothing. He'd spent the better part of the night poring over the information Bruce had gathered on the men who'd broken into the warehouse. None of them could be called career criminals; in fact, some of them didn't even have prior records. None except the two former guards at Gotham Cryogenics had any connection to the others. A motley bunch all thrown together to do . . . what? Four hours of looking though the files, and Terry still hadn't a clue. It was all starting to look extraordinarily bad.  
  
"Terry? Terry, have you been listening to a word I've been saying?" Dana's annoyed tone jolted him out of his thoughts. "Hello?"  
  
"Yeah, I'm here. Sorry ... you kinda caught me in the middle of something. What were you saying?"  
  
Her exasperated sigh made him cringe. "Never mind. What are you doing that's keeping your attention better than I seem to be?"  
  
"Sorry, Dana. It's just that I'm working on this project -''  
  
"Something for school?"  
  
"Yeah. Um . . . civics."  
  
"Oh." There was a pause. "Is Max there? Put her on if she is. I found this schway dress I want to tell her about."  
  
"Max has got better things to do than watch me work," Terry squinted at the screen. "She and Jared went to this new swanked-out place downtown. They're probably eating squab or something as we speak." He tapped a button, and the face of a weary, heavyset man filled the screen. Harold "Harry" Tomalison -- the friend of the man he'd interrogated at the factory. His fact sheet was short. He'd been on probation for a firearms charge. Was divorced with a kid in college. The end. Terry rubbed the bridge of his nose. There went that lead.  
  
"They are so cute together," Dana went on. "Maybe the four of us could double sometime. I always felt kind of bad saddling her with Howard when we'd go out. He's sweet, but he's no Jared."  
  
"Never a truer word said," he sighed, as the next set of files scrolled down the screen. "I think I hear my mom and Matt coming in. I'd better get going."  
  
"Okay. Don't study too hard."  
  
"I never do."  
  
"Night, Terry. I love you."  
  
"Yeah. Me, too. Night."  
  
Clicking his cell closed, he stared blankly at the computer screen, the words and pictures turning into incomprehensible characters and shapes before his tired eyes. Everything was a jumble - nothing was clicking. It was probably as clear as day, but he couldn't see it. Maybe all the cheesy squares he'd eaten were dulling his senses.  
  
"Terry? Honey, are you here?"  
  
Terry looked up as his mother and younger brother entered the kitchen, the latter clutching a bag spotted with grease.  
  
"We didn't think you'd be home," Mary McGinnis planted a kiss on the top of his head. "Are you feeling okay?"  
  
"Yeah, twip. You said you had plaaaaaans," Matt danced around his brother's chair.  
  
"I did. I have a killer project due soon, and this is the first weekend Mr. Wayne hasn't . . . needed me."  
  
"Booooooring. You should've come with us! There's this new arcade that opened up next to Cheezy Dan's. They have this new Batman VR game . . . it's like you're really driving the Batmobile," Matt enthused. "It's so schway. You can't even imagine."  
  
"Guess not," Terry said dryly. "What's that?" he indicated the bag.  
  
"A club sandwich and some freaky fries," Mary wrinkled her nose in distaste. "With extra cheese. We weren't sure if you'd eaten. I know you love the Beefy Burgers, but I'm afraid they ran out."  
  
"Yeah . . . they were real good today. I had three," Matt craned his neck to look at the screen of Terry's computer. "Who's that guy?"  
  
"Nobody," Terry snapped the console shut. "Stop snooping."  
  
"He looked like a twip. Like you."  
  
"Careful . . . I wouldn't go insulting the guy who has an advance copy of DoomTrakker5000Z."  
  
Matt's eyes widened. "No way you have that!"  
  
Terry waved a small disc. "Max was able to score a copy. She wanted me to give it to you, but -'' Matt was off and running with the prize before his older sibling could blink. Terry grinned. If only he could get rid of other pests so easily.  
  
"Finally, a chance to get some rest," Mrs. McGinnis said wearily. "Your brother and his friends were a handful tonight. Next time, I'll let one of the other mothers have the pleasure of being driven crazy," she ruffled Terry's dark hair. "It's good to see you being so industrious. Good night, sweetie."  
  
"Night, Mom," he waited for her to leave before resuming his work. Settling back in, he attempted to put everything out of his mind and focus on the task at hand. Two hours later, he'd finished the entire file - and had gleaned very little information. Sighing, he folded up his laptop and stretched, ignoring the throbbing in his head as he switched off the lights in the kitchen and headed for bed. Passing Matt's room, where their mother was engaged in disengaging the boy from his new game, Terry entered his own room and went to the window.  
  
Staring out into the darkness, he was conscious of a feeling of discontent. It was night . . . and he had nowhere to go, nothing to do. It was a strange sensation - one he didn't like at all. He'd wasted a perfectly good evening looking at useless junk when he could have been doing something else. Anything else.  
  
He checked the clock and dialed Max's number. Four rings, and then her voice: "This is the Gibson residence . . ." Terry waited a moment and then pressed a button.  
  
"Hey, Max. It's Terry. I spent all night looking over the stuff we talked about earlier, but I still didn't see anything unusual. I still want your take on it, though. Could be I'm missing something. Anyway, I'll see you at school tomorrow. Later."  
  
He hung up, feeling vaguely unsettled. It was after eleven, Max wasn't home and there was school the next day. She and Jared must be having a real good time, he thought, his eyes straying to the distant, twinkling lights of the city's center. Minutes later, he turned off the lights and hopped into bed. Staring at the ceiling, he let his mind wander until he was able to drift off to sleep. 


	2. 2

Chapter Two  
  
It was midnight, and all was well in Gotham City.  
  
Or, to be more correct, all was as well as could be ~expected.~  
  
The thought didn't comfort Terry, however, as stood alone and silent on the Brown Bridge, his jacket zipped up against the chilly air. He'd been there alone several times before at that time of night - even out of the suit. This time, though, it felt strange. A light fog hung in the air like a lazy insect, and it was little too quiet for his taste. But he had come out to the old bridge to think, after all, so quiet should have been welcome to him. But it wasn't.  
  
The gentle slosh of the river below was soothing, though. He leaned over the railing and gazed at the water licking at the bridge's support beams. He stared for a moment and started in surprise as something shiny amid the waves caught his eye. The more he tried to focus, however, the dimmer the object seemed. It took him a few moments to realize he was having trouble seeing because the fog had become thicker and was covering everything in a blanket of haze. Terry squinted, trying to focus, but it was useless. The shining thing - whatever it was - had shimmered from view as the fog became more and more dense.  
  
He backed slowly away from the railing, growing slightly alarmed as the wind blew harder and his vision grew dimmer and dimmer. He fumbled at his pockets for his cell phone, and his alarm turned to decided uneasiness when he realized it wasn't there. He never went out - especially at night - without the phone. It was his link to Bruce and the "civilized" world. How else would he know if there were a problem or emergency?  
  
He fought to remain calm. In his haste to get out the house, he'd probably left the phone in his other pair of pants. No big deal. He exhaled slowly, reaching up to tap his left shoulder, as if to reassure himself that his suit, at least, was still there. With the fog coming on so, there were bound to be traffic snarls, and accidents that he could help avert, and -  
  
Terry stopped short, his breath leaving him in one shocked wheeze as he discovered that the backpack, too, was missing. His unease was replaced with a cold, biting fear. He looked around, frantic - had it slipped off somehow? He'd dropped it somewhere on the bridge, maybe. He could discern nothing, however, in the immutable wall of gloom. It was as if the world had been drained of color, leaving only a seemingly immovable screen of stark white behind. It'd be fascinating, he thought irrelevantly, if it weren't so, well, ~weird~.  
  
"Terry?"  
  
He whirled at the voice. Though the wind was howling in his ears, he could hear the voice. It was low and soft, muffled somewhat, but familiar.  
  
"Who's there?" His voice was equally low and cautious, every muscle primed to react if the answer he received was not good. Of all the nights to be without the suit . . . its IR sensors would have been able to cut through the fog like a hot knife through butter. "Hello?"  
  
"Terry?"  
  
He heard footsteps, and then, like the parting of a curtain, a figure appeared through an aperture in the fog. The person walked steadily toward him, and Terry's eyes went wide with shock and recognition as the person advanced.  
  
"~Dana~?" his voice bled disbelief. "Uh . . ."  
  
He stared, mouth agape. The petite girl stood before him with a slight smile on her face. She was clad in her usual attire of blue dress and black boots. And that was all - there was no jacket, no sweater, no scarf, even, to buttress herself against the cold. Terry immediately shucked his jacket, moving to wrap it around her bare shoulders. "How did you know I was here? I thought . . ."  
  
His voice trailed off as she moved closer, slowly, every step as measured and graceful and smooth - almost as if she were floating. The fog had lifted somewhat and he could see her, and most of his surroundings, clearly again. Well, almost. He moved closer, turning toward her with a wide smile, and -  
  
The smile on his face dropped at the same time the fog did. Terry blinked once, twice, a third time . . . staring dumbly, not at the lovely face of the girl he called his own, but at her hair. The lengthy strands fluttered in the breeze like something out a film noir. The effect was rather sexy actually, the hair whipping around that way.  
  
But her hair . . . Dana's hair. Dana's hair?  
  
It was . . . pink.  
  
Pink like the carnations on his dining room table, like the bottle of lotion on his mother's vanity, like the little pills Bruce Wayne took to keep his heart still ticking.  
  
Pink.  
  
Terry began to shiver, and he knew it had nothing to do with the weather.  
  
"Uh, Dane . . ." he paused, suddenly at a loss for words. Could it be the light, maybe? Or was he having some Batcave-induced hallucination? "Dana, your hair. It . . ."  
  
She was an arm's length away from him then, and the gap became even narrower as she grabbed him by his black T-shirt and pulled him close.  
  
"Dana," he stared down at the Technicolor locks, tentatively wrapping a tendril around his forefinger. The petal-like hue was a stark contrast against the peach of his finger. "Uh . . .this is a new look for you. It's . . . um . . . interesting. When did you, uh . . ."  
  
He didn't finish, for suddenly, they were kissing. Terry couldn't be sure how it started or who initiated it, but there they were standing in the middle of the bridge in a lip-lock minted straight from a movie. Any feelings of unease he had drifted away as the kiss grew deeper and more passionate. He held her tightly, paying no attention to the conditions. It didn't even seem that cold any longer. At that moment, his world began and ended on her lips, and nothing mattered. Nothing at all.  
  
The kiss ended as abruptly as it had begun, and Terry stood dazed and breathless, his lips tingling pleasantly. "Whoa. If you thought that would take my mind of this," he stroked her hair, "you were half-right."  
  
She shook her head, smiling. "I don't think, McGinnis. I ~know~."  
  
Terry jumped back, startled. That voice. It wasn't Dana's. It was low, throaty . . . sultry even.  
  
Not Dana's.  
  
Not even close.  
  
She gave him a puzzled look. "Terry? What's wrong?"  
  
He backed away from her slowly. That voice . . . it sounded familiar, but it wasn't ~hers~. It was comforting, though; a voice he was accustomed to, just not coming from Dana. Just like the hair - on Dana, it looked garish, but the color itself was lovely, soothing.  
  
"What is this?" his voice shook slightly. "Who are you?"  
  
The girl grinned slightly, and shrugged. "Who do you want me to be, Terry?"  
  
He shook his head rapidly, as if to clear it. It was strange. Though he was fairly certain that the girl in front of him was not the Dana Tan he knew and loved, he was conscious of one thing - he wanted to be near her. The hair and the voice alarmed him, but he was strangely drawn to them at the same time. He wanted to wrap his arms around her, lose himself in her kiss.  
  
But it seemed wrong somehow. The desire was there, but it seemed wrong . . . like a perfectly good pair of shoes that didn't quite fit the color scheme of an outfit. He was wrong to want her, but deep down, he could feel a sense of guilt. He should leave. Didn't want to, but he knew it was probably the right thing to do.  
  
Right for ~whom~, however, he couldn't say ...  
  
Opening his mouth to speak, Terry was shocked to hear a scream issue forth instead. It pierced the air, and the whole landscape seemed to tremble with the impact of the sound. He couldn't figure out why he was yelling just as he couldn't stop staring at the girl.  
  
She stood unflinching, nonchalantly toying with her hair. "Who do you want me to be, Terry?" she repeated. "Who? Who?" The words tumbled over another and spiraled upward, wrapping themselves around Terry's anguished scream. Who . . . who . . .who . . .  
  
  
  
Terry sat straight up in his bed, his heart pounding painfully. It was some moments before he realized that he was in his room and had been for some time. He'd been dreaming. All of it had just been a dream - one of the freakiest he'd had to date, but a dream, nonetheless. He stared muzzily out of his window into the clear, night sky. Running a hand over his hair, he labored to arrange his thoughts. He'd been dreaming, but what ~could~ it all have been about? It was strange: He could still see the fog . . . still see Dana and that ~hair~ and that ~voice~ . . . still feel her lips against his . . . still hear that scream . . .  
  
"No! No! Nooooooo!"  
  
Terry's head snapped up. Someone ~was~ screaming. He ~hadn't~ been dreaming that. Someone was yelling, and it sounded close.  
  
"Noooo! Dad!"  
  
Matt. It was Matt, screaming his head off. Terry was out of bed and down the hall before he could think. The shouts became more subdued as he hurried down the hall, and Terry could hear Mary's voice, soft and soothing, coming from inside the boy's room. Pushing through the door, Terry saw his mother perched on the edge of Matt's bed, speaking in hushed tones. Matt was cradled in her arms, his face buried in his mother's shoulders.  
  
"Mom? Matt? What's going on?"  
  
Mary looked up, her eyes dull with fatigue. "He had a bad dream," she rocked her youngest son gently. "But it's okay, Matty. It's all over now."  
  
Terry sank onto the bed beside them, a worried frown creasing his forehead. Matt had had nightmares before - usually after watching five or six Fangzitra movies in a row, right before bedtime - but never had he woken the entire household with screams that made it sound as if he were being tortured.  
  
"Hey, squirt," Terry stroked the boy's back. "You all right?"  
  
Matt squirmed out of Mary's arms and turned his fevered, tear-streaked face toward his brother. "Monsters . . . I saw them . . . they were . . . were over near t-t-the closet," he took a deep breath. "They . . .they had long teeth and . . . and c-claws . . ."  
  
"Claws, huh?" he ruffled Matt's hair playfully. "Sounds like Ms. Degronto, my physics teacher. Only ~her~ teeth are fake."  
  
Matt didn't smile. "I ~saw~ them. They . . . " he wallowed hard. "They were . . . were k-k-killing Dad. . ."  
  
Terry's smile faded. "What?"  
  
"They had claws and they . . .they were cutting him," Matt started to tremble. "He was trying to . . . he was hitting them . . . trying to make 'em stop. But they wouldn't. They just kept . . . kept cutting him and . . . and . . ." He took a ragged breath. "There was blood -''  
  
"Matt, honey, it's all right," Mary shot a glance at Terry, who was staring silently at the younger boy. "It was only a dream, sweetie. There aren't any monsters."  
  
"But I ~saw~ them!" his voice was shrill. "Dad was ~crying~. He was telling them to stop, but they just ~laughed~. Dad was crying and bleeding and they laughed at him," Matt's eyes were ringed with fear and sadness. "They were cutting him. I saw it . . . I . . . I saw Dad. I saw Dad d-d-dying. I ~saw~ it. I saw it!" Matt dissolved into fresh tears, burrowing into Terry's chest, his small body convulsing with every sob.  
  
Terry stared numbly down at his brother, knowing that he ~should~ say something reassuring, but able to nothing more than rub the boy's back. The image of their father pleading for his life slammed into his brain like a sledgehammer. Could it have been true? Did he beg? Did he cry? Had he suffered? In his mind, Terry answered "no" to all the questions. But in his heart . . .  
  
In his heart, he could never be sure. He could never know truly how his father spent the final moments of his life or how he met his death. Terry liked to think he went down fighting, but he'd never be absolutely sure . . . because he hadn't ~been~ there.  
  
And ~that~, he knew, would be a nightmare he'd never be able to shake.  
  
Terry glanced down, surprised to see what looked like drops of dew glistening in the 8-year-old's dark hair. It wasn't until Mary drew a hand across Terry's cheek that he realized that the wetness in the boy's hair were tears - his own.  
  
~*~  
  
~At this hour, area hospitals are jam-packed with sleep-starved and shaking Gothamites,~ the VR newsman's preternaturally cheerful tone echoed through the halls of Hill High. ~Complaints of nightmares so intense that sleep is impossible have doctors baffled . . .~  
  
The bell rang, cutting through the newscaster's words. Terry, yawning, leaned in, straining to catch the rest of the broadcast.  
  
~. . . Deputy Mayor Lana Monroe, District Attorney Sam Young and Chief of Schools Synclare Gutierrez are among the Gotham officials said to be afflicted. And now, the weather . . .~  
  
"Hey. You look like you could use this."  
  
Terry turned to see Max with a cup of coffee in her outstretched hand. "I guess I don't have to ask how ~your~ night was."  
  
"Thanks," He grasped the cup gratefully. "I got about a half-hour of sleep - 20 minutes of it came in the shower. I was up with Matt until seven."  
  
"How is he?" she asked as they walked toward the gymnasium. "Did he calm down any?"  
  
Terry sighed. "Nope. He'd nod off for awhile, and then 10, 15 minutes later, he'd wake up again, yelling his head off. Mom's taking the day off to stay with him."  
  
"Nightmares?"  
  
Terry halted, remembering Matt's quivering form, the fear in his eyes . . .  
  
~I saw them . . . monsters . . .they were killing Dad . . .~  
  
"Big time," he muttered. They entered the gymnasium and took a seat on the bleachers. "I've never seen him so freaked out. And it seems like half of Gotham's seeing the Bogeyman."  
  
"It's creepy," Max agreed. "Look at that." She nodded toward the center of the gym, where two or three members of the soccer team were doing passing drills. A few players huddled on the sideline, pale and trembling, talking in low voices and sharing a cask of some liquid. At another end of the room, five cheerleaders listlessly practiced their routines, some stumbled into one another, and all looked visibly shaken.  
  
"It's like Night of the Living Dead in here," Max said. "For people who ~are~ here, anyway. Homeroom was like a ghost town and most of the classes are half-empty. Everybody looks slagged."  
  
"You don't look like you had such a cozy night's sleep yourself," Terry noted dark circles under the dark eyes. "You all right?"  
  
"I'm fine, I guess," she shrugged. "Jared's a wreck though. He called late last night, flipping out. It was hard to get back to sleep after that."  
  
"What? You mean he . . ." his inclined his head toward the drowsy soccer players.  
  
"Yup. It was too weird," she leaned against the bleachers, one long, lithe arm snaking behind Terry's back. "The whole night, he seemed fine. We went to dinner, went for a walk . . ."  
  
"A walk, huh?" He took a long draught of the coffee, the warmth flooding into his body, bringing him a little back to himself. "You guys go to the Square?"  
  
"No . . . Jared was real . . . I don't know . . . bouncy. He said he wanted to take a ~real~ walk, whatever that meant," she smiled. "We hiked all the way up to Brown Bridge."  
  
He halted in mid-sip. "Uh . . . really? That's a pretty long ways from downtown."  
  
Terry stared into his cup. So . . . as he was dreaming about the Brown Bridge, Max and Jared had most likely been walking across it. Or toward it, anyway. It was the kind of little irony that he'd normally pass off as inconsequential - but with all the weirdness going on in the city, he couldn't be so sure what, if anything, was normal. He gnawed his lower lip, wondering if he should mention it to Max. After a moment, he decided against it. It wasn't worth getting into right then. They had bigger things to worry about.  
  
"Tell me about it. And ~I~ was in heels - new ones. But he seemed perfectly fine. He dropped me off around twelve-thirty. About two o'clock, my phone rings. I thought it was you - I'd gotten your message, but I thought it might be too late to call -''  
  
"You can't be serious. Since when has twelve-thirty been too late to call ~me~?"  
  
"I know, I know, but on your message, you sounded kind of tired," she replied. "Anyway, it was Jared. . . and he was totally freaked." She ran a hand over her short, pink hair. "His mom's out of town for a couple of days, so he's home alone. He said he'd been having some whacked-out dream about a giant, killer earthworm that was biting the heads off his neighbors."  
  
Terry started. "A killer ~earthworm~?"  
  
"That's what he said," she shrugged. "I saw him in calculus. He says he's okay, but he looks totally out of it." Max rested her chin in her hand. "I wonder why he didn't just stay at home."  
  
"Maybe he figured he'd have more distractions here," Terry's eyes narrowed, and for a moment, he was lost in thought. "So you don't think this is all just coincidence . . . do you?"  
  
"I don't ~think~ it isn't; I ~know~ it isn't."  
  
A bolt went through Terry from top to toe. "~What~ did you just say?"  
  
"I said I know it's not a coincidence. This is way too strange, don't you think?"  
  
~I don't think, McGinnis. I know.~  
  
That ~voice~. Memories of his dream came flooding back to him, and he turned pale, realizing all at once why the voice had seemed familiar. It was ~Max's~. He wasn't sure why he hadn't realized it immediately. The warm, almost melodic cadence was as distinctive as the rest of her - from the black armband she almost never took off to the second-skin outfits she often wore. And, of course, there was the hair -  
  
The hair. His eyes shifted and traveled upward. He'd nearly forgotten about the hair. But as fatigued as it was, his mind still retained the image of the pink strands against the white backdrop the fog provided. And there he sat, looking at an exact, real-life match of that shade. Terry was still. It was so bizarre - it had been Max's hair and Max's voice . . . but it hadn't been ~Max~ there - it was Dana. He wasn't so far gone that he couldn't tell the difference between them. It ~had~ been Dana in his dream. He'd held ~Dana~. He'd kissed ~Dana~.  
  
But it was a Dana with Max's hair and Max's ~voice~.  
  
He put the cup down, his stomach doing flip-flops. It was the coffee, he rationalized. It was stupid of him to drink it a virtually empty stomach. And it probably was the caffeine rush that was making him so dizzy.  
  
"Ter, you still conscious?" Max was looking at him, the concern on her face palpable. "You look like you're zoning."  
  
"Huh? Oh . . . sorry," he forced his eyes away. "Just tired, I guess."  
  
"Too tired to take a guess at what we're dealing with here?"  
  
"A little, but don't let that stop ~you~."  
  
"I don't have the faintest clue," Max said. "When I did get back to sleep, I slept all right."  
  
"Yeah? No . . . uh . . . unusual dreams?"  
  
"Nope," she shook her head. "You?"  
  
"Uh . . . no. Uh . . . not really," It took him a few moments to realize he'd been holding his breath. He exhaled slowly, wondering why he felt so nervous all of a sudden. "Neither did my mom. Only Matt. It's weird."  
  
"Sure is. Guess you and the old man are going to have a lot to talk about later."  
  
"Yeah," he grabbed his backpack and slung it over his shoulder. "I guess we will."  
  
~*~  
  
The grainy, slightly peppery smell of sawdust tickled Jeremy's nose as he walked through the dark lower story of the building Chaise had dubbed "The Haven." The building was, in itself, pretty unremarkable. It was a red- brick affair, rather retro, actually, and it sat unobtrusively on the corner of a quiet street in the city's northwest sector.  
  
There were three levels: Chaise was using the upper floor as storage space, sometime-bedroom and makeshift laboratory. There was a basement that was fairly sizeable, but for the moment, empty. And then there was the ground floor - the center of more activity than the old structure had probably ever seen. Laser saws whirred, hammers banged, heavy footsteps trooped in and out of the building with an almost-overstated regularity.  
  
The workers took no notice of Jeremy as he trooped past, looking all around with a slight smirk. He had to hand it to Chaise: His men did work quickly. By the looks of it, everything would be in place within a couple of days. Maybe even less. Not that they would open for business right away. No. There was much, ~much~ to be done before that.  
  
The cell phone at his hip sounded, and Wittinger grabbed it before the first ring had died. "Yes?"  
  
"Jeremy! You at The Haven?" Even through the din, Chaise's exuberance was unmistakable. "What do you think? It's not state-of-the art, of course, but- "  
  
"It'll do," Jeremy turned his back on the noise. "It's smaller than I expected. And older. The furnishings you've chosen look as if they've seen better days."  
  
"That's by design, Jer. We want people to think we've ~been~ here for awhile, don't we? The place has to look ~lived-in~. That's why the location's such a gem - hardly anyone comes back to Century Square, so nobody knows what's back there and what isn't."  
  
Jeremy sighed. "Fine. Where ~are~ you? I expected you'd be here supervising."  
  
"Needed to run some errands. You got the news on?"  
  
Jeremy's eyes flickered to the front of the room. "No. The workers are watching some sort of sporting event."  
  
"Well, give it a glance when you get around to it. It is bona-fide nuts out here. The hospitals are completely full. I think they're gonna start filling up the loony bins pretty soon." There was a pause. "Ain't it great?"  
  
"I really think you should get back here. We've got a lot to discuss."  
  
"I won't be long. I really think ~you~ should turn the news on, Jer. Or better yet, get outside and view the fruits of your labor. You've earned it, partner."  
  
Wittinger's gaze strayed out a nearby window at a couple passing by. The male, a large, husky individual, glanced around fitfully, almost fearfully. Jeremy noticed that the man had one hand on a holster at the side of his hip. The other was tucked into his girlfriend's back pocket. Their faces were drawn and dour, and both were yawning mightily. Jeremy turned away with a frown.  
  
"Perhaps later. Please don't dawdle. There's a lot that remains to be done."  
  
"I'll be there soon, Jer. Keep your shirt on!" Merrill sounded amused, but his tone had a slightly annoyed cast to it. "You're a genius and all, but I ~am~ still the boss here." He chuckled softly. "Aren't I?"  
  
"Of course," Wittinger said softly. "You're the boss."  
  
He killed the link before Chaise could utter another word.  
  
~*~  
  
"How is he?"  
  
Bruce Wayne gazed steadily at the vid-link image of a more stern-faced-than- usual Barbara Gordon. "News reports have been characteristically vague."  
  
"On my orders," there was weariness at the edges of her voice. "Until we know what we're dealing with, there's no call to alarm people more than they already are. I also want to keep the details of the content of these dreams out of the papers," her lips compressed into a thin, tight line. "But that probably won't last long, either."  
  
Bruce nodded. "Is that why you have Sam in Lauderhill?"  
  
"We know the staff," she said. "And they know ~me~. If any details about Sam's condition leaked out, well . . ." she shrugged slightly. Bruce hid a smile, knowing firsthand what that little shrug meant.  
  
"And Sam?"  
  
"He's . . . I've never seen him like this. Not even when it first happened. The doctors say that it's just a bad case of night terrors, but . . ." The police commissioner sighed. "Half my staff is eating coffee straight out of the can, terrified of going to sleep. There are 300-pound men here crying like babies . . . they talk about the most hideous nightmares." She shook her head. "How are ~you~ doing? I haven't seen your name linked to any of this."  
  
"I'm not that big on sleep," he said dryly. "And nightmares have become a way of life for me."  
  
Barbara nodded somberly. "I'd better get back. The mayor has every man I've got working around the clock. There've already been twenty car accidents this afternoon - five fatal . . . people falling asleep at the wheel," her expression was pained. "And something tells me this isn't the worst of it."  
  
"This may be a good time to delegate," Bruce looked thoughtful, "so that you can spend as much time with Sam as you can. He's going to need you-"  
  
She gave him a look that would have cowed any man - any man other than the one she was presently scowling at, that is.  
  
"Bruce. You know better than that. I'll be in touch." The monitor faded to black.  
  
Sighing, the graying man stared at his feet where Ace, trusted guard dog and companion, slept contentedly. The mixed-breed stirred slightly, ears cocked, and the old man's eyes narrowed, jaw set hard.  
  
"How are you feeling?"  
  
Terry halted, chagrined. He'd ~thought~ he was being quiet, but in the cavernous expanse, there really could be no such thing.  
  
"Pretty lousy," the teen answered, stifling a yawn.  
  
Bruce spun around and studied the youth with concerned eyes. "You're yawning."  
  
"Yeah. I think I might have dislocated my jaw."  
  
"Have you been able to sleep?"  
  
"Been able to? Yeah. Have I? No." Terry moved the side of the Batcomputer's console. "Matt's got whatever's going around. He was up all night. I stopped off at home a few minutes ago; Mom says it's gotten worse. They're going to Gotham General. The lines at the pediatric ward aren't as long as everywhere else. Yet."  
  
"It's the same all over the city," Bruce rubbed the top of Ace's head. "I was just talking to Barbara . . ."  
  
"Yeah, I heard about the D.A. How's it going?"  
  
"Not good," Bruce looked up. "Does the name Seymour Cantrell sound familiar?"  
  
"Uh . . . no. Should it?"  
  
"Before your time, but sometimes you'll see news articles with references to him. Seymour Cantrell was one of Gotham's more . . . inventive . . . serial killers," Wayne leaned back in his chair. "He preyed only on couples - most of them elderly, isolated and well-off. He'd tie the husband up in such a way that he'd have no choice but to watch Cantrell rape and disembowel the wife. Then Cantrell would dispose of the husband relatively painlessly - a single bullet to the head. Though that 'single' bullet often came from a shotgun."  
  
"Whoa," Terry digested that for a moment. "He got caught, though . . . right?"  
  
"Yes. Eventually."  
  
"How?"  
  
Bruce looked at him, an eyebrow lifted near to his hairline. Terry fought a smile. Of course. How else?  
  
"But six people died before Cantrell was brought to justice," the blue eyes clouded over a moment. "Cantrell was as slippery as they came."  
  
"Was?"  
  
"Cantrell was the first high-profile murder Sam prosecuted as D.A.," Bruce said. "Sam sent him to the chair."  
  
"Guy sounds like he deserved worse."  
  
Bruce nodded slightly. "There were some problems with the case - a lot of evidence that was ruled inadmissible. The killings had had the whole city in a terror, and some of the GCPD were a little . . . overzealous in culling evidence. A lot of people thought Cantrell might walk. Sam got his conviction, though. Lord knows it wasn't easy."  
  
He paused. "Barbara tells me that Sam dreams that the case ~was~ thrown out . . . and Cantrell goes on a tear - starting with ~Sam~ . . . and Barbara. In his dreams, Sam is the helpless husband tied up and Barbara . . . " the old man fell silent a moment. "It seems every time Sam returns to sleep and starts to dream, Barbara gets more . . . hurt. The dreams are quite . . . explicit."  
  
"Oh geez," Terry shuddered in the nippy air of the cave. "Where is he now? The D.A., I mean."  
  
"A private inpatient facility on the outskirts of Gotham. He's under constant surveillance. The last time he woke up from one of the dreams, he attacked an orderly, thinking it was Cantrell," Wayne's gaze lingered on Terry. "And your brother . . .?"  
  
Terry's eyes slid to the floor. "Matt . . . he . . . he says he dreams of monsters killing . . . uh . . . killing our father," he swallowed hard. "He says he's there watching them, but they can't see him . . . that there's blood everywhere, and he sees Dad . . ." he swiped at his eyes, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth to quell the queasy feeling he had in stomach.  
  
"Even when Dad first . . . you know . . . Matt had a couple of bad nights, but nothing even close to this."  
  
"Does he have any idea how your father died?" Bruce's voice was soft.  
  
"No details," Terry bit his lip. No one knew the details - all of them - of Warren McGinnis' death save Bruce, Terry himself, Commissioner Gordon . . . and Warren's murderers. "I think Mom kinda danced around it. She didn't exactly lie, but . . ."  
  
"And what about you? You said you were able to sleep, but didn't. Why?"  
  
"I was up with Matt," Terry replied. "Me and mom took shifts . . . he couldn't get to sleep all night."  
  
"And you didn't have any nightmares? No odd dreams?"  
  
"Uh . . ." he thought about his Dana dream, and blushed. It was something he really didn't feel too comfortable sharing with Wayne. And he had the feeling the old man wouldn't care much about it anyway.  
  
"No. No nightmares. My mom, either. Or Max . . . and she was out with Jared and ~he~ had 'em."  
  
"You know, it's very odd . . ." Bruce tapped his cane against his foot. "These nightmares appear to be incredibly personalized."  
  
"Huh? Whaddaya mean?"  
  
"Well, the term 'nightmare' is a catch-all," Bruce stood and hobbled toward the row of lit cases displaying costumes of old. "The dreams are disturbing, yes, but in most cases they're a very ~generic~ disturbing - falling off a cliff . . . being chased . . . going in for a test and realizing you've forgotten the material . . ."  
  
"Yeah . . . I'm ~real~ familiar with that one."  
  
"But ~these~ dreams are hardly generic. In fact, they seem to speak to fears or neuroses - some of them buried deep in the subconscious - like Sam's anxiety about prosecuting the Cantrell case or your brother's grief about the death of your father . . ."  
  
"Or Jared's earthworms," Terry added.  
  
"Earthworms?"  
  
"Max says Jared's been dreaming about killer earthworms. Jared's dad - his biological one - was an entomologist . . . and a real jerk," Terry scowled. "Jared told me once that whenever his old man got ticked at him, he'd hide all sorts of freaky-looking bugs in his bed. To this day, Jared can't even look at an ant without flipping - his mom can't either."  
  
"It's almost as if something is probing the subconscious of those affected for the most disturbing incidents, extracting those memories and manufacturing them into nightmares - nightmares that get progressively worse with subsequent sleep."  
  
"And so people don't ~want~ to. That's creepy. Sounds like a weird retro horror movie I saw with Dana "Nightmares on Pine Street" or something."  
  
"It ~is~ like a movie in some ways," Bruce said. "From what I can gather, the dreams pick up where they leave off - only with more intensity. I'm no dream analyst, but that's definitely ~not~ normal."  
  
"Psyches and screwing around in the mind?" Terry grimaced. "You know who ~that~ sounds like."  
  
"Yes," Bruce looked grim. "The police have talked to him . . . he denies having any involvement."  
  
"The cops? I don't think they speak his language," Terry opened his backpack, pulling the suit into view. "Luckily, I'm fluent in lunatic."  
  
Bruce was quiet a moment as Terry pulled on the costume. "This is on a much bigger scale than he usually works. I think it'd be near-impossible to pull off, especially given where he is."  
  
"Maybe so," Terry, now in the guise of the Batman, pulled the cowl down over his face. "But I could use some air. Don't wait up."  
  
~*~  
  
~And Gothamites continue to pour into local healthcare facilities seeking a respite from resting. Officials estimate nearly a third of the city are reporting intense, recurring nightmares. Causes of the phenomenon are, as yet, unknown . . .~  
  
Ira Billings flipped the tiny vid-screen off, a thoughtful, faraway look in his eyes. The screened-in gazebo in Arkham Asylum's west wing was quiet; the air was fresh and carried just a hint of chill. Billings breathed deeply, enjoying the breeze and the semi-semblance of freedom the enclosed section afforded him.  
  
It was refreshing to be alone and in the open - even though the privilege - given to only the most accommodating and trusted of the inmates - allowed him just 20 minutes in the tiny space. He didn't dare complain, however; even two minutes away from the crackpots and crazed individuals, and simple- minded, brutal guards who watched over them, was welcome and necessary for his ~own~ sanity.  
  
He was being monitored, he knew. Not that there was any need, really. Should he be foolish enough to try to break through the gazebo's screen, there would be a nasty surprise in the form of an electric shock waiting for him. Sometimes, though, he thought it might almost be worth it to try to escape. Better a quick, though not entirely painless, death on the outside than the slow murder of his mind and spirit he suffered while a "guest" in the asylum.  
  
Billings always pulled away from those thoughts, however. He considered himself, without question, the most intelligent man ever housed within Arkham's walls. In fact, Dr. Santoro, his psychiatrist, often made comments about his brilliance. Dr. Santoro often praised Billings . . . said he was making real progress . . . a model inmate . . . getting in touch with himself . . . realizing the error of his former ways . . .  
  
Dr. Santoro was a fool.  
  
But that, Billings knew, would be his ticket out of Arkham. As long as he continued to fool them all, he'd get out there with relatively little damage done. And then he'd be free . . . free to show Gotham how grievously they'd misjudged him. Billings smiled slightly, staring out into the darkness.  
  
Ah . . . sweet Gotham, where all continued to be chaotic, if the news reports were any indication. It was really too bad that he was locked up and out of sight - he could be of real help to the city now . . . how else to get citizens' minds off their sleeping sicknesses than with a good, solid illusion?  
  
One day. He turned his back on the night, sighing softly. One day he'd be back to make up for lost time. And then they'd all know just how much they'd missed their Spellbinder.  
  
"A little cold to be out without your straightjacket on, isn't it?"  
  
Billings jumped and spun around, his mind and eyes taking a moment to process the sudden appearance of the shadowy figure on the other side of the screen.  
  
"Batman," Billings grinned, relaxing. "I half-expected a visit from you."  
  
"Uh-huh," the Bat moved as close as he dared to the wiring outside the gazebo. "Keeping tabs on your handiwork?" he pointed to the vid-screen in the doctor's hand.  
  
Billings looked mystified. "My . . . handiwork?"  
  
"Come on, doctor. You may have fooled the cops, but I'm not biting. People are having nightmares that play on their deepest fears, and mind-tapping's your bag."  
  
"Ah . . . the nightmares," the wiry man sat on the sad-looking wooden structure that passed for a bench. "I have been, as you say, "keeping tabs" on the situation in Gotham, but my interest is of a professional nature. As I have told the authorities, I have nothing to do with the latest pickle the city finds itself in."  
  
"And you expect me to believe that? You really ~have~ lost it."  
  
"You can believe what you wish," Billings regarded his visitor calmly. "What's going on in Gotham City is not - what is the police term for it?" he adjusted his glasses, thinking. "It's not my . . . m.o."  
  
"Messing around with people's minds? Sounds pretty dead-on to me."  
  
"But with dreams? No." Billings shook his head slowly. "I employed ~illusions~ you could touch, taste, ~feel~. My illusions were as ~real~ as you can get, Batman. Nothing so ephemeral and intangible as dreams. That would almost be like . . . slumming."  
  
"The kids you fried with your whacked-out version of VR knew they were dipping into a fantasy world. It may've seemed real while they were in the bubble, but as soon as they were out-"  
  
"Yes, but they hungered for more," Ira's eyes shone predator-like behind his glasses. "They ~ached~ for it. Like your good friend Maxine Gibson. She resisted only when you ~forced~ your blasted reality upon her."  
  
Beneath the cowl, Terry's face burned at the mention of Max's brush with the madman's brain-poaching virtual-reality machine. He fought the urge to kick Billings' teeth in. Another time. Right then, he had a job to do.  
  
"From what I gather, no one's rushing to embrace the Sandman. These are quite . . . disturbing dreams," Billings clicked the vid-screen on, and held it level to the Batman's eyes. Footage rolled of shaking, bug-eyed men, women and children huddled in hospitals. Fifteen-car pile-ups on the main bridges . . . one near-miss at the airport after an air-traffic controller fell asleep standing up, and then awoke in terror, sprinting from the runway. The scene cut to and stayed on a building in front of which people were lined for blocks. Billings turned up the volume.  
  
~. . . outside one of Gotham's largest superstores, where, insiders say, there has been a run on caffeine products. Whatever illness has the city in its grip, it sure isn't hurting the coffee industry any. . . ~  
  
"People are doing what they can to avoid sleep, to avoid these dreams," Billings carelessly threw the vid-screen on the bench. "Now where is the fun in that?"  
  
Batman's eyes narrowed. "If it's such a drag, then why the 'personal interest'?"  
  
"Well, it is ~mildly~ interesting," Billings said with a shrug. "If events continue in this vein, the city will have a very different problem on its hand other than a cappuccino shortage."  
  
"And what might that be?"  
  
"Sleep is ~not~ a luxury, Batman. I'm sure even ~you~ are aware of that. The more these unfortunate individuals attempt to fight it, the more their bodies will crave it. Tell me - how long do you imagine a person can function normally having had little or no sleep? Moreover, what do you think the effect on a person's mind would be after continual subjection to terrifying nightmares?" Billings smiled slightly.  
  
"Sleep-deprivation is an ugly thing, I assure you. I've done studies. But even uglier is schizophrenia . . . and as sure as we're both standing here, if people continue to be barraged by such hideous dreams, well, Arkham will have to rush its expansion in order to house all the people who will have gone insane."  
  
"Sounds like something straight out of your fantasies, Billings."  
  
"You think about ~my~ fantasies? And they say ~I'm~ disturbed," Billings waggled his eyebrows at the Bat. The teasing smile dropped at the sound of footsteps. Two guards rushed into the gazebo, weapons drawn.  
  
"Dr. Billings? Who in blazes are you talking to out here?" the more portly of the two asked as the other searched the gazebo area.  
  
Billings looked away for a moment, sneering. "An old friend. Apparently, he's not much a believer in the Arkham method of rehabilitation."  
  
"~Who~ doesn't, Dr. Billings?" The guards were staring stupidly at him, open-mouthed.  
  
Billings sighed. "Come, gentlemen. Surely you've made the acquaintance of the great . . ." he turned back toward his visitor, and then stopped, stupefied. The air was still . . . the breeze had quieted . . .  
  
And Batman was gone.  
  
"But . . . but . . ." Billings sputtered. "He was right there a moment ago. Surely you caught him on the surveillance cameras!"  
  
The guards exchanged a knowing glance. "You'd better come inside, Dr. Billings. Your 20 minutes are up, you know," said the thinner one.  
  
"I . . . he was there. He was ~there~," Billings scanned the area wildly, trying to make sense of it all. "Not a moment before you came in, he . . ." The man stopped abruptly, frowning slightly. There was no way the Bat could have gotten away so quickly without snapping a twig or two underfoot - and such a sound would be so much more amplified in the stillness of the evening - like the backfiring of a car on a quiet dirt road. And the guards hadn't seen him . . . yet he'd been there.  
  
Or had he? Perhaps it had all just been . . . an illusion.  
  
Yes! Billings straightened a little, the frown fast disappearing. Of course! The only asnwer was that he was now so powerful that he could conjure illusions by thought alone. The police officers' earlier visit had inevitably gotten him thinking about the shadowy crime-fighter . . . and it had been rather quiet and boring all alone in the enclosed space. He'd needed some excitement. Someone to talk to - even an annoying someone - and he, Ira Bilings, was able to create an illusion with the most powerful tool he'd ever known - his mind.  
  
An illusion. Yes. That had to be the answer. It had all been an illusion. One so seamless, so perfect, he almost thought it was real.  
  
But he knew better. After all, he was Spellbinder. And with Spellbinder, nothing was ever as it appeared.  
  
"Dr. Billings? Is . . .um . . . everything okay?"  
  
"Why, yes," Ira scooped up his vid-screen and tucked it gently under his arm. "Everything is just fine."  
  
Smiling, Billings allowed himself to be led back into the building.  
  
*  
  
"He's nuts, and they just let him walk around like he's on vacation," Terry, sans cowl, paced around Bruce's chair. "I still think he knows more than he lets on. He was way too willing to talk."  
  
"You never know with Billings," Bruce muttered absently. His fingers were a blur over the Batcomputer's console. "But he's consistent, at least. He told the police virtually the same thing he told you."  
  
"So he's good at getting his story straight," Terry shrugged. "He knows all about sleep-deprivation and mind-control. He's gotta be the guy. You should have seen the smarmy look he was giving me."  
  
"I ~did~ see it."  
  
"Yeah, well . . . it was like he was getting off on it. I swear, he's hiding something. . ." Terry peered up at the computer screen, his brow furrowed. "T-bone . . . chicken cordon bleu . . . smothered pork chops . . . you planning a dinner party?"  
  
"Working on a theory," Bruce turned to face the teen. "On the Web, they're reporting that the city's going to do tests on the water supply."  
  
"The water supply?" Terry echoed, scowling. "So it's something in the water? Great. So the whole town's going to be peeing their beds by tomorrow."  
  
"I don't think so," Wayne said. "If the water supply had been tampered with, many more people would be exhibiting symptoms. And since there's no evidence that there's a delay in the onset of the nightmares . . ."  
  
"Okay, I follow," Terry nodded. "But what does food have to do with it?"  
  
"I've been studying the medical files of some of those affected," Bruce continued. "And I noticed a couple of peculiar things. First off, in each case, the person reported a marked surge in energy ~after~ eating a meal - usually the final meal of the day. I checked in with Barbara. She and Sam had dinner at Le Jirque last night, and later, Sam insisted on going on a 10-mile jog."  
  
"So? That doesn't seem too unusual."  
  
"It is at three in the morning."  
  
"You kidding? That's when I get most of my exercise."  
  
"Barbara tells me Sam had dragging all day. Big caseload. She'd taken him out to dinner to try to get his mind off things. After dinner, he was practically bouncing off the walls." Bruce noticed a thoughtful look on Terry's face. "What is it?"  
  
"Max said that she and Jared walked all the way from a restaurant downtown to the Brown Bridge."  
  
"A long walk."  
  
"Yeah . . . and Jared ~hates~ to walk. I didn't think of it until just now. He'd drive his car just to go to the corner store - when he ~had~ his car, that is. And Max isn't ~that~ big on midnight strolls . . ."  
  
"Hmmm. And what about your brother? What was his behavior like?"  
  
"Matt? He seemed his usual, twippy self," Terry shrugged. "He and my mom had been at one of his Silver Scout parties. I was in the middle of something . . . didn't really notice anything out of the ordinary."  
  
"And where was this little get-together?"  
  
"The usual place. Cheezy Dan's."  
  
"Do you know what he might have eaten there? Or your mother?"  
  
"Uh . . . pizza probably," Terry frowned, thinking. "Or . . . hey, wait: He had a Beefy Burger. I think he had a couple. My mom said there was a run on them. They must have been pretty good, because he usually has pizza. No idea what Mom might've had. She's on this health-food kick, so she probably had what passes for salad there."  
  
"And Sam had a porterhouse steak," Wayne said. "Barbara had eggplant terrine. Do you know what was on the menu for Maxine and Jared?"  
  
"Uh . . . no. I know Max is big into lobster. But -''  
  
"What did ~you~ have for dinner last night?"  
  
"Me? Um . . . dunno . . . some cereal. A couple of Cheezy Squares. It was a slow night."  
  
"But no meat?"  
  
"Well . . ." Terry raked his fingers through his hair. "Um . . . I don't know. I guess not."  
  
"I didn't either," Bruce rested his chin on steepled fingers. "Yet, according to cash-card records, everyone who's affected seems to have eaten ~some~ meat product in the past 24 hours."  
  
"Meat product?" Terry cast a skeptical eye on the screen. "Geez . . . I dunno. Seems kinda iffy. I mean, just about everybody eats meat -''  
  
"~You~ didn't. I didn't. Barbara didn't. And your mother and Max probably didn't. Not yesterday, at least," Bruce replied. "And none of us are affected. Neither is a sizeable portion of the city . . . and I'd be willing to bet ~they~ didn't have any last night, either."  
  
"Yeah, but -''  
  
"There's something else," Bruce swiveled back to the computer, punching up a map of Gotham. "I've done a little digging. Cheezy Dan's, Le Jirque, all of the restaurants downtown and in Old Town and many of the area's supermarkets all get their meat supplied from ~one~ plant. Care to guess which?"  
  
"How should I know?" Terry glanced at the screen. He then did a double- take, his jaw slack. "No . . . you've ~got~ to be kidding."  
  
"Gotham Meat Packing Inc. The plant that was ~burglarized~ the night before last." Bruce whirled around, his expression grim. "It seems the men who'd broken into the plant that night had a purpose after all - one that has the whole city in an uproar." 


	3. Interlude

First Interlude  
  
  
  
"All right, guys, you've done a lot of hard work -- and trust me, I appreciate every second of it - but now we've got to be real careful, watch ourselves, and keep a lid on things. Raise your hands if you understand."  
  
Chaise, standing on a raised platform in the middle of the room, beamed as the group of men sitting on the floor before him obligingly raised their hands. Mopping his brow, he squatted down, resting gingerly on the edge of a large basin that covered more than half of the platform.  
  
"Good, good. I don't mean to talk down to you guys, but I just need to make sure we are absolutely clear. I mean, we're too close now to start making silly mistakes. Right, Jer?" he looked to his left.  
  
Wittinger, sitting quietly in the shadows, inclined his head. He wriggled in his seat, trying to find a comfortable position, but it was all but useless. The chair in which he was sitting was too soft, too lumpy and too large for the small space. In fact, the whole décor seemed wrong. He glanced around the finished and furnished first level of The Haven. The overhead lamps were dim, bathing the entire level in an eerie, almost sinister glow. The walls were painted an olive shade and were decked with collages of dried leaves and twigs. He noticed that one of the decorations was actually a Christmas wreath with the ribbon and berries torn out. The wooden floor was covered in dried pine needles, some of which were as pointy and sharp as stickpins. Jeremy shook his head. Chaise did say he wanted the building to have a "lived-in" look, and it did - as in, looked like a bunch of nuts ~lived~ in it.  
  
"... Don't want a bunch of people poking around," Merrill's voice was a little agitated. "So just keep a lid on things - any leaks get out, and, well, it'll be bad. Bad for all of us," he looked around, smiling. "It's all about protecting our interests, right?"  
  
The group nodded. Jeremy noticed, however, that none of the men had relaxed under Merrill's genial expression. They were remembering, maybe, that this same smiling, sweet-looking man had sent 13 men to their deaths with the push of a button. Thirteen men whose only crime was to have had the misfortune to run afoul of the Batman. Jeremy remembered those men, too - but that was not the reason he was not smiling. No - his grave expression was for another reason entirely.  
  
". . . So we've got a lot do. I want to get set up by tomorrow - day after at the very latest. So, I figure we'd better do our little test run now. Get all the kinks out. Jeremy?" he glanced over at Wittinger again. "Could you show us how to set up? Please?"  
  
Wittinger got to his feet, walking quietly toward the dais on which Chaise and the basin rested. A large wooden barrel stood near, a hose running from a hole in its side to the inside of the tub.  
  
"It's really very simple," Jeremy cleared his throat. "You simply turn the nozzle here," he pointed to a gray knob on the underside of the hose. "Turn it counterclockwise. You'll feel a slight resistance, but don't force it. You must turn it slowly or you will break the knob."  
  
"Hear that, boys? Easy does it," Merrill gave the men a broad wink. "All right - then what?"  
  
Wittinger carefully turned the dial until he felt the knob jump in his hand. "You'll feel a slight click - you may not hear it, but you ~will~ feel it," Jeremy straightened. "When you do, it means the barrel has been tapped, and then all you'll have to do is wait."  
  
He looked down into the faux-marble basin, watching as the hose twitched, issuing out a clear, odorless fluid into the bowl. "And there you have it. In about 30 to 45 minutes, the basin will be full, and you'll simply roll the empty barrel away and dispose of it however you like. Now, I estimate that in a given day, you'll require two to three refills," he looked at Chaise. "I hope you have a plan in place for that, especially, as I imagine, ~this~ area will be full of people."  
  
"Oh yes," Merrill said. "We figure will have some wide vid-screens in here - you know, something to give the people to look at while they wait. We'll stash the reserve barrels behind the screens, roll 'em out when we need 'em and put the empties behind the screen 'til we get a chance to get rid of them later. Easy."  
  
"All right. At any rate, as long as you remember to turn counterclockwise, slowly -"  
  
"-Until we feel the click -"  
  
"Yes ... until you feel the click - ah, and another thing - this is extremely important - do not let any metal alloys or metallic substances of any kind come into contact with the liquid," Jeremy gave them all a stern look. "Metals void the reactant properties in the solution."  
  
"No metals. Okay," Chaise said. "Anything else?"  
  
"Actually, yes," he turned to Merrill. "It is not enough to just sprinkle the solution on affected individuals. They must ingest some of it, as well. That is imperative. Somehow, you must ensure that your ... patients ... open their mouths enough so that you can get some of the liquid in. Once it is, the reflex to swallow should kick in, but if it does not, if the solution is spit out or what have you, you must repeat the process. A person will not be ~cured~ until he or she has swallowed some of the liquid. I cannot emphasize that enough."  
  
"Don't worry, Jer. We hear you loud and clear," Merrill clapped him on the shoulder. "How much of the stuff should we use?"  
  
"About a palmful will do," Jeremy reached into the half-full basin and scooped up a handful of he liquid. "More won't hurt, but it won't be necessary. Please try not to waste much of the liquid - it takes a good deal of time to make and synthesize."  
  
"Don't worry," Merrill murmured absently, staring into the basin. "Geez . . . this looks bona-fide, Jer, it really does. Just like water. Wonder what it tastes like . . ."  
  
"It doesn't ~have~ a taste - I told you that in the beginning," Jeremy looked annoyed. "I gave you a sample some time ago. I thought you were going to try it."  
  
"Never got around to it," Merrill shrugged. He looked up, settling his gaze on a tall man with a patchy crew cut, broad shoulders and hands like meat hooks. "Oh, Dex?"  
  
The man stood uncertainly. "Yes, Mr. Merrill?"  
  
"Come on up here and give this stuff a try. I'm curious to see if it really doesn't have a taste at all."  
  
~Then why don't ~you~ try it?~ Jeremy thought, hiding a sneer. But that was typical Chaise; Such a big talker. And such a big coward.  
  
Dex looked uneasy. "Geez, boss. I dunno. I mean, I'm not sick or anything. Sandy's the one who needs this stuff."  
  
"Sandy will get his shot - don't worry. But he'll be too out of it to remember anything - even that he was sick. Right, Jer?"  
  
"Correct. When the substance takes effect, the subjects won't have any real memory of the dreams at all. It will be as if it never happened."  
  
"Schway, as the kids say," Merrill beckoned to Dex. "Come on Dex . . . it's just water - kind of - and a little water never hurt anybody."  
  
"But what if it messes me up?" Dex protested. "It could, you know, because I don't have the bug. Lemme go get Sandy -"  
  
"Oh, for heaven's sake," Jeremy, annoyed, plunged his hand into the trough and brought it out full of the liquid. He downed the fluid in one gulp, enjoying the cool liquid as it slid down his throat. "Ah . . . it's quite refreshing, actually."  
  
"Good man. See? Nothing to it," Chaise smiled at Dex. "C'mon . . . give it a whirl."  
  
"But . . . he . . he ~made~ the stuff," Dex looked pointedly at Wittinger. "What if he, you know, gave himself a shot or something, you know, so it won't screw him up . . ."  
  
Jeremy struggled to hide his outrage at the implication. It really was intolerable to have to work with such morons. And ~these~ were the men on whom they were all supposed to depend? Beautiful.  
  
"Chaise, I-" Wittinger turned toward him only to be waved into silence. The smile had disappeared from Merrill's face, and he stood staring thoughtfully at Dex.  
  
"Dex . . . let me try to understand this. Are you saying that Jeremy - who's worked and slaved over this formulation here - you're saying, Dex, that he'd try to ~poison~ us and poison those poor people who're going bonkers out there without sleep. Is ~that~ what you're saying, Dex?"  
  
The gun was out of Chaise's inside pocket and pointing at Dex's head before Jeremy had time to register what was going on. "Is ~that~ what you're ~saying~, Dex?"  
  
"N-no . . . that's not w-what I --" Sweat dripped off the ends of Dex's tangled hair. "M-Mr. Merrill . . . what . . .w-what are you--"  
  
"Dex," Chaise's voice was low and soft. "Get up here, please, and take a drink. Please do not make me ask you again."  
  
"Okay, boss, o-okay," the man scrambled onto the dais, his eyes never leaving the gun. Stooping at the basin, eyes still trained on Merrill, he dipped his hand into the liquid and brought it, trembling, to his lips. The room was completely silent as Dex gulped it down, gripping the edge of the basin to keep himself steady.  
  
"Well? How is it?" Chaise lowered the gun as Dex straightened up. "Not too bad, huh?"  
  
"N-no," Dex wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Nice and cool."  
  
"What's it taste like?"  
  
"Uh . . . taste's like water, I guess."  
  
"Not like chemicals?"  
  
"No, sir."  
  
"Not even a hint of 'em? Any aftertaste? You know, I really ~hate~ that-"  
  
"No, Mr. Merrill, sir. It really, uh, doesn't have a taste at all. It's . . . uh . . . just like water."  
  
"Good, good," Chaise nodded. "I'm glad to hear it. Thank you, Dex. You're done."  
  
Jeremy saw the flash of the gun out of the corner of his eye a second before the shot sounded - the report of the blaster sounding incredibly loud in the stillness of the room. Dexter slumped to the floor like a bag of wet cement, blood ringing his head like a lopsided halo. A splash of blood dotted the wreath, the vivid red swirling around the green wreath, creating a macabre mosaic of Christmas colors.  
  
No one moved, but Jeremy saw that many of the men had turned pale. A few in the front had been splashed with Dex's blood, but they didn't move a muscle. All eyes, save Wittinger's, were on Chaise.  
  
Merrill slowly put the still-smoking blaster back into its holster, and he looked up - his face, his whole demeanor, exuding calm.  
  
"Never question me," Merrill's voice was gentle. "I have only your best interests at heart. And I will not have any nonbelievers in my camp. Is that clear?"  
  
They all nodded solemnly. A dazzling smile stretched across Merrill's broad, florid face.  
  
"Excellent. Jerse, Lyle? Please take Dexter somewhere where he will not be in the way. Gene? Please go upstairs and fetch Sandy. He's in the lab, poor kid. It's time for him to be brought back to us. Oh, and Ben? Get a mop please . . . we don't want any unsightly stains." Merrill stooped low, studying the contents of the basin as his men went about their tasks.  
  
Jeremy glowered at the silent, oblivious man, his hands clenching and unclenching by his side. Fourteen dead. Fourteen men dead now. And, by the looks of it, Chaise wasn't done. Wittinger could only hope that he'd be able to gut it out until he was able to do what needed to be done. And if he, Jeremy, was successful in ~that~, well, he would have avenged those dead men several times over.  
  
"Mr. Merrill, sir?" The unfortunate Ben reentered with a tattered mop. "Uh, there's something wrong with the taps on the sinks, sir. I can't get any water to uh, to clean, uh . . ." he nodded toward the pool of blood.  
  
Merrill considered a moment, then reached into the basin, throwing three or four handfuls of the liquid on the floor. The clear substance mixed with the crimson oval, turning it an oddly attractive shade of pink. "There you are, Ben."  
  
Ben murmured a thank you and began hastily mopping at the wet spot. Completing the task quickly, he scurried to the relative safety of a shadowy back room.  
  
"Jeremy, I know what you're thinking," Merrill stood, but did not look at the smaller man. "I know just what's on your mind right now."  
  
If that were true, Wittinger thought, he'd be lying right next to Dex in a ditch somewhere. "Yes?"  
  
"It had to be done. We can't have any malingerers, no nonbelievers. We need to weed them out, Jeremy. The nonbelievers need to be . . . cut down."  
  
Wittinger started to speak, but thought better of it as footsteps sounded on the stairs behind them. A moment later, two of Merrill's men came into the space. One, a youthful-looking redhead, was pale and trembling, and leaned heavily on his cohort's arm. Jeremy forced himself to look at the man - another of Merrill's ~test~ subjects.  
  
"Ah, Sandy," Chaise looked up. "How are you feeling?"  
  
"D-D-D-D-D-D-Dunno, boss. I-I-I-I-I can't . . . I c-can't get to sl-sleep," Sandy gasped out. "I-I-I . . ."  
  
"Yes, Sandy. I understand," Chaise beckoned the two men toward the dais. "I understand. Gene, bring him a little closer."  
  
"I-It's just that I-I see him. I s-s-see ~him~," tears rolled down the man's cheeks, and his companion, still holding him up, shifted uncomfortably. "He . . . he . . . he keeps after me. I shoot him - I-I shoot his arms off . . . I sh-shoot his l-legs off . . . I even shoot him in the -- in the head. But he keeps on after me . . . no matter how much I- I-I . . . he keeps after me!" Sandy began to shake uncontrollably. "I . . . can't make him s-stop. I can't! I can't make him s-s-s-stop . . ."  
  
"Of whom does he speak?" Merrill looked at Gene.  
  
"His brother," Gene replied. "Dumb guy spilled Zesti all over Sandy's comic collection . . . ruined the lot. So Sandy wasted him."  
  
"He killed his own ~brother~ over ~comic~ books?" Jeremy gaped at the man. "You can't be serious."  
  
"What, are you slagging me?" Gene glared at Wittinger. "Some of 'em were, like, a hundred years old. Worth a ~lot~ of creds."  
  
"He won't go away . . ." Sandy moaned from Gene's shoulder. "Every time I close my eyes . . . I see him. . ."  
  
"It's going to be all right, Sandy," Merrill squeezed the man's shoulder and guided him to the side of the basin. "It's going to be over soon. Jeremy?" Merrill's voice was soft. "Could you guide me, please?"  
  
"Have him crouch down," Wittinger instructed. "That's it . . . now tilt his head back."  
  
"This way?"  
  
"Not so much. You don't want him to choke. Yes . . ." Jeremy nodded in approval as Chaise shifted upward, Sandy's head supported in the crook of his arm. "All right. That looks fine. Now, go."  
  
Merrill dipped his free hand into the pool and brought his hand out full of the liquid, some of which splashed across the dais. He bowed his head close to Sandy's, muttering something Jeremy could not quite make out. As he spoke, Merrill's hand moved slowly down Sandy's pallid face, sprinkling the crystal-like liquid as he went over eye, nose and lips. Chaise's hands halted over the man's slightly open mouth and tilted slightly, sending a stream of the liquid within.  
  
"Now you swallow this water, Sandy," Merrill said. "It's going to cleanse you. It's going to soothe your mind and set you at ease."  
  
Sandy complied, swallowing painfully. A few drops trickled from the corners of his mouth, and the man coughed a little before falling weakly back into Chaise's arms. Gene, standing open-mouthed in wonder, took a few steps back.  
  
"Good, Sandy. Very good. It's all going to be just fine now," he eyed Jeremy. "How long until it begins to work?"  
  
"Five minutes . . . ten, tops. They will feel incredibly fatigued - the exact opposite of how they felt within the first minutes after ingesting the catalyzing substance. They will almost immediate lapse into slumber . . . but when they do, the dreams will have stopped."  
  
"All right. We'll give Sandy here a little time to relax," Chaise eased the drowsing man to the floor as two of his men, both dusty and covered in clay, entered from a back door.  
  
"Jerse, Lyle, back so soon? Is Dexter squared away?" Merrill asked.  
  
"Yes, sir. Usual place."  
  
"Excellent. Our Sandy has taken the cure. He should be back with us momentarily," he turned again to Jeremy. "I've decided to begin by charging 25,000 credits for treatment."  
  
"That's quite high."  
  
"Yes . . . but it will do two things: One, it will give us a sizable cash flow almost immediately, and we'll need it. The materials to manufacture the cure aren't cheap. Two, the price is cost-prohibitive enough to make sure we won't be overwhelmed - at least not at first," Chaise ran a hand across his forehead. "As word gets out, we'll be able to lower the price a smidge."  
  
"When word gets ~out~, it's going to be a madhouse in here, regardless of price. I truly hope you are prepared."  
  
"We will be. Believe me, my friend - we will be."  
  
~My friend?~ Jeremy glanced sideways. Merrill's head was bowed, and his voice had shed its commanding timbre and morphed into something quite different -- high and whispery, almost song-like. His hands were clasped lightly in front of him and he was all but motionless, kneeling next to the supine form of Sandy. Jeremy stared a moment longer, the color rising to his cheeks as he realized what was happening.  
  
"I often wonder what it is about Gotham that intrigues me," Chaise's gentle tone caused the hair on the back of Jeremy's neck to rise. "It is not the lights and glamour of the city. It isn't the reputation. It isn't the money," Merrill looked grave. "Do you know what it is, Jeremy, my friend? Do you have any idea?"  
  
"No . . ." Wittinger's mouth was dry.  
  
"It is, simply, that there are so many sick people here," Chaise said. "~Sick~. Physically, mentally, emotionally ~sick~. ~That~ is what brings me back . . . that is why I cannot stay away. This whole city has been tainted with illness. Every one of them infected. And they need me, ~me~ to make it right. They need me to make it all right again."  
  
Chaise caught Jeremy's eye and smiled at him. Wittinger, pale as milk, did not return it. Looking into the round man's watery blue eyes, Jeremy knew, in an instant, that he was staring into the eyes of a madman.  
  
There could be no mistaking it: Chaise was reverting into that . . . that . . ~thing~ that had caused so much pain and so much damage in the past. Jeremy felt a surge of anger - Chaise had promised him that ~this~ venture would be totally different. That they'd approach everything like businessmen - like professionals. But Jeremy could see, now, that Chaise had gone back on his word. This enterprise of theirs would be no different than it had in the past. No different at all. After all his assurances, all his promises, Chaise was reverting, turning into ~him~ again.  
  
For the first time since the whole affair had started, Jeremy began to feel nervous.  
  
"Sandy's beginning to stir," Chaise looked down at the floor. "Shall we wake him and see how he's feeling?"  
  
Wittinger studied his watch intently, glad for the chance to look away from those eyes. "Hmmm. Nearly seven minutes. He should be all right. Wake him."  
  
Merrill nodded to Gene. The taller man came forward, and grasped Sandy's shoulder, shaking him hard. "Sandy? Sandy, wake up!"  
  
The man on the floor gave a slight groan. "Huh? Wha . . .?"  
  
"Hey, Sandy! Get up! Mr. Merrill wants to talk to you."  
  
Sandy's eyelids fluttered slightly. "Geez . . . let me sleep a little while, willya? I'm slagged, man."  
  
"Sandy," Chaise leaned close. "Can you hear me?"  
  
Sandy started in alarm at Merrill's voice, and he sat up quickly. "Mr. Merrill, sir! I-I'm sorry. I was, um, I was just resting my eyes. I-"  
  
"It's quite all right, Sandy. Quite all right. How are you feeling?"  
  
"Um . . ." Sandy's eyes darted nervously from one face to another. "A little tired . . . like I've been up all night or something . . . but -"  
  
"Do you remember anything of what you did last night?"  
  
"Uh . . . sure, Mr. Merrill. I . . .uh . . . was on sentry duty. No, wait a minute . . . maybe that was the night before. No . . . hold on a minute," he frowned heavily. "I was . . . um . . ."  
  
"Never mind," Chaise said. "You were sleeping just now -"  
  
"No, sir, Mr. Merrill, I wasn't! I swear!"  
  
"It's all right, Sandy. It's all right. Now tell me . . . tell me about your dreams . . ."  
  
"My . . .dreams, sir?"  
  
"Yes, Sandy. Your dreams. What did you dream last night?"  
  
"Uh . . ." Sandy looked perplexed. "Gee . . I dunno, Mr. Merrill. I don't remember that kind of stuff."  
  
Merrill smiled slightly. "Come on, now, ~surely~ you must remember ~something~. Tell me about a dream you had this week . . . this month."  
  
"Geez . . . I'm sorry, Mr. Merrill . . . but I don't really . . . uh, wait. Last week . . . um, I think it was last week, I had this real weird dream that I was dressed up like one of those Jokerz dregs. I had this wild yellow wig on, and-- "  
  
"But you can't remember anything else? Anything . . . exciting?" Merrill paused. "Scary?"  
  
Sandy shook his head uncertainly. "I don't usually have any exciting dreams, Mr. Merrill, and if I do, I don't remember 'em."  
  
"But, San . . . what about your brother?" Gene asked breathlessly. "What about, you know, the chasing and stuff?"  
  
"My brother? What the hell? I don't give the bastard a thought," Sandy looked angry. "Not a thought . . . hope the dreg's roasting in hell," he yawned expansively. "Geez, I feel so tired. I must've been on sentry last night . . . yeah, yeah, I'm almost sure that's what I was doing."  
  
"Of course it was," Merrill nodded. "Of course. Now go on upstairs and have a nap, Sandy. I'm going to need more of your help tonight. I'll need you to be well-rested."  
  
"Yes, sir," Sandy got to his feet and yawned again. "Yes, sir." He headed toward the staircase. An amazed Gene followed close behind, stopping at the stairs to look back at Chaise and Jeremy. The former shook his head curtly, and Gene, understanding, nodded back, following Sandy up the stairs.  
  
"Success, my friend," Chaise's voice was barely audible above the footsteps. "Success."  
  
Jeremy nodded once, his gaze fixed on the shimmering liquid in the faux- marble basin. So it was done, then. There was, as they said, no turning back now.  
  
It had begun. 


	4. 3

Chapter Three  
  
The late James Gordon, husband, father and Gotham police commissioner for more years than many could believe, had had a ~way~ about him during times of crisis. It wasn't a "frenetic" way or a "delusional" way or a "disinterested" way - it was just a ~way~ -- a manner, a state of being he was able to slip into that seemed to quell the fears of those around him. He seemed to be able to communicate to his personnel and his fellow Gothamites that no matter what the danger or catastrophe or problem, no matter how daunting or hopeless or frightening it seemed, good ~would~ win out. The perpetrators would be ferreted out, and justice would prevail. Some said it was easy for Jim Gordon to remain so at ease - after all, he had the Batman and his team of costumed crusaders virtually at his beck and call.  
  
Others knew better: Gordon had been a career cop. He'd risen through the ranks, been on both sides of the line, and knew the destructive properties of panic. Like a plague, it spread quickly and utterly, infecting and corrupting whatever stood in its path, leaving devastation, ruin and fear in its wake, prompting chaos. A leader - a good one - knew that in times of trouble, he or she would be in the spotlight and would set the tone for those he led.  
  
For, if the person at the top gave into the terror, then so would those beneath him. It was the trickle-down effect at its worst. So the thing to do, of course, was to project calm. Appear to be at ease with the situation. Speak reassuringly. In a place like Gotham, where things went very wrong very often, Jim Gordon had perfected the projecting of calm even when he didn't entirely feel it himself. And though it wasn't a failsafe measure, it seemed to work fairly well for him. It helped that he'd been a personable and well-known figure. Gothamites, for the most part, liked him and believed in him, but what really sold it was that indefinable "way" he'd had about him. From the ramrod-straight posture to the flicker of hope in his clear blue eyes, one could see his belief that whatever had gone wrong ~that~ time would soon be righted. They took comfort in that, and they put their faith in it and him. And very, very rarely were they ever disappointed.  
  
Barbara Gordon liked to think she, too, had a "way" about her, inherited, along with some of her other better qualities, from her father. Goodness knew Gotham had its share of catastrophes during her tenure as police commissioner, and she had not always had the luxury of a Batman to swing in and act as a partner. But until recently, though, she'd not wanted one. But so much had changed since the time during which Jim Gordon sat in the commissioner's chair and her own time. She glanced over at the framed picture of her beloved, long-dead father. The lined face and authoritative expression stared out at her reassuringly, his smile slight and his eyes serene. Calm.  
  
Calm. She had real need of ~that~. The city was in a shambles; more and more people being attacked by their subconscious - half her people and her husband chief among them. Casualties were mounting, and no one knew what to do or what not to do.  
  
Check that. ~Some~ people knew exactly what ~not~ to do. Some just had that gift. And, as bad luck would have it, those very people also seemed to be the ones in power . . . the ones in prominent-enough positions to come into her office unannounced and take up her time.  
  
Three such people sat in a semicircle around her, all wearing displeased expressions. Devon Landry, a tall, swarthy man with a perpetual smirk, sat directly opposite her, alternately glancing out the plate-glass windows and clearing his throat. Beside him sat his client, Tyrone McAllister, owner and CEO of Gotham Meat Packing Inc. At least ~he~ had the decency to look embarrassed. Though the climate control in the room made it comfortably warm on that fall day, beads of sweat rolled down his lean face, dropping on and staining his silk tie. Sitting beside McAllister was the most uncomfortable-looking of Gordon's visitors: Cecil Danvers, mayor of Gotham City. He kept his eyes fixed hard on Gordon, almost as if he were trying to control her words by sheer force of will.  
  
A fourth visitor stood nearby, not actually in the office, but as able to hear the conversation as any of those four inside. Batman, in camouflage mode, stood on the ledge with his fingertip mics pressed to the window, the scowl on his face deepening with every word.  
  
"I'll say this only once, Commissioner. If there's even a hint that GMP Inc. is in any way connected to or responsible for this . . . dream phenomenon, we will sue the police department and this entire city for slander and defamation of character," Landry glared as hard as he dared at Barbara. "To be frank, I'm shocked at the implication. Mr. McAllister himself is a victim, here. Hooligans burglarized the northeast plant, causing untold amounts of damage. To suggest that he is involved in this unfortunate situation is -''  
  
"Mr. Landry, take a breath," Barbara wearily rubbed the bridge of her nose. "We're not necessarily accusing Mr. McAllister of any wrongdoing. We have a situation here: People reported symptoms within 24 hours of eating foodstuffs supplied from GMP, which had, a day earlier, been broken into. Now that's a little too coincidental, for my taste, especially as there was no apparent theft."  
  
"That is untrue. Nearly thirty pounds of Grade Triple-Alpha prime rib were lifted," Landry replied. "Triple-Alpha, Commissioner. Only five-star restaurants use meat of that quality."  
  
"Mr. Landry, please. I doubt that men who have the means and the weapons to break into a well-guarded operation like GMP would do so just to steal 30- credit-a-pound sirloin."  
  
"Not sirloin, Commissioner. Prime rib."  
  
"Er, I think what the Commissioner means, Mr. Landry, is that the break-in at GMP is quite the mystery," Mayor Danvers broke in nervously, noting Barbara's dark look. "Unfortunately, the circumstances of that situation are still quite unclear."  
  
"The case is still open," she said curtly. "Were running tests on the hoverjet, and results from the autopsies of the men who died in that explosion are pending. But that investigation has to take a back seat to the city's current situation. We have to move under the assumption that GMP's product has been tampered with, and that means everything from GMP's plants has to be pulled from the shelves."  
  
"Commissioner, there is a saying from the last century that I think would be appropriate here," Landry smirked, "about those who ~assume~."  
  
"I'm familiar with the phrase," her tone was mild, but her eyes dared him to utter the words. Landry picked up on the challenge, and regarding the compact, formidable woman opposite him, wisely decided on another tack. He turned to Danvers.  
  
"Mr. Mayor, while I am not unsympathetic to the current plight of the city, I don't believe that making Tyrone McAllister and GMP Inc. the "bad guys" here would be fair at all. The Commissioner has admitted that she has no proof of any tampering, yet because a few of the unfortunate people who are ill ate cheeseburgers, she would have Mr. McAllister lose his business and his reputation."  
  
"Maybe you haven't been listening, Mr. Landry. All, not a few, but all of the people who are reporting the nightmares had eaten a meat product originating from GMP Inc. a day after the break-in," she, too, looked at Landry. "It doesn't take a rocket scientist to see that there is a connection."  
  
"Well, GMP supplies much of the city's restaurants, offices and supermarkets," Landry looked smug. "Why am I not affected? Or any of my family? I had a delicious T-bone last night, and I slept like a baby."  
  
Barbara pulled out her PDA and tapped a few keys. "Funny you should mention that, Mr. Landry - according to the data some of my people put together, each of the places who ordered product from GMP went through their entire shipments that same night - the night that it all began. There have been no more break-ins, but we can't rule out the possibility that more of the tainted meat is hanging around somewhere - or that what's been done is an inside job."  
  
"Erm . . . well . . ." Landry looked put out. "Yes, well, but you also seem to be fine, and you were in close proximity to one of the afflicted."  
  
"I'm not much of a meat-eater," Barbara answered. "And you will not find a vegetarian among the affected. We've looked. It seems those who avoid actual meat products - not just animal products like dairy - are the only people to have been untouched by this. Like you, Mr. McAllister," she raised an eyebrow at the sweating man. "It's rather odd that the owner of the region's largest meat-processing and packing plant would be a vegetarian himself."  
  
"He . . . why that's . . . he has high cholesterol!" Landry sputtered angrily. "Commissioner, you have ~no~ right to imply -"  
  
"Cecil," McAllister's voice trembled as he turned sad, pleading eyes toward the mayor. "Cecil . . . you can't think I had anything to do with this, could you?"  
  
"Of course, not, Tyrone," Danvers said soothingly. "As Commissioner Gordon has said, no one is accusing you..."  
  
"Guy's on a first-name basis with the mayor?" Batman muttered into the commlink. "Why am I getting a real bad feeling all of a sudden?"  
  
~McAllister is one of Danvers' biggest supporters, Bruce replied. He was the biggest financial contributor to his last campaign, and he's pumping a lot of capital into Danvers' upcoming bid for governor.~  
  
"Perfect. Guess graft makes the world go 'round, huh?" Batman tuned back into the conversation as McAllister's pleading died down.  
  
"This is utterly preposterous," Landry blustered. "Mr. Mayor, with all respect, I think Commissioner Gordon is, perhaps, letting personal sentiment cloud her objectivity."  
  
Barbara looked at him. "Oh?"  
  
"Well, after all, District Attorney Young has been affected, and is, I hear in quite a bad way," Landry continued to address the mayor. "I hesitate to say it, but it seems that the Commissioner, in her grief and anger, of course, is seeking to assuage her feelings of helplessness and anger by pinning the blame on the most available target. Well, I'm here to tell you, Ms. Gordon, that vilifying Tyrone McAllister is not going to make your husband well, and, in fact, would be an abuse of your office."  
  
Gordon gazed at him a moment, a half-smile on her lips. "You know, Mr. Landry, I wouldn't go casting aspersions on objectivity if I were you."  
  
The lawyer blinked. "Excuse me?"  
  
"If I recall correctly, you have a stake in the upcoming elections for district attorney, she glanced over at Danvers, who had gone pale. "Yeadon Landry is running against my husband. This will make, what, the third time he's attempted to become Gotham's D.A.? He'll stand a good chance to win if Sam remains ill. And the chief litigator standing in the way of the investigation into these illnesses would be his brother - you, Mr. Landry."  
  
Landry's face turned an interesting shade of purple. "That is slander, Commissioner. Pure and simple slander. To suggest I'd put hundreds of thousands of lives at stake for an election? I am appalled. Simply appalled," he glowered at her. "I was representing Mr. McAllister and GMP well before my brother's foray into politics."  
  
"And I was responsible for the safety and well-being of every person in this city well before my marriage to Sam," the smile had dropped from her face, and a deadly serious expression took its place. "Don't try to get into a pissing match with me, Mr. Landry. Believe me, you would lose."  
  
Batman could have sworn he heard a chuckle come from the other end of the commlink.  
  
"You are so interested in numbers, Mr. Landry? Mr. McAllister? Well here are a few: Seven-hundred thousand affected, three hundred dead in incidents relating to sleep-deprivation, thousands more injured, and that's just today's statistics," Barbara slammed the PDA down and leaned menacingly toward them.  
  
"Yes, my husband is among those living out a hell no one in this room can imagine, but he is one of many hundreds of thousands who are affected. Doctors, scientists and every single man and woman in this office are working around the clock to find a cure for the sick. But our main priority now is to ensure that whatever is happening does not spread to the rest of the population," she swiveled around to face the mayor. "Our only hard lead is GMP. All I ask is that we shut it down temporarily so that my people can take a look into the place. And as a precaution, the products currently on the market should be pulled. They need to be analyzed, and -"  
  
"One moment, Barbara," Mayor Danvers looked grim. "I was under the assumption that a full analysis was done on the meat immediately after the break-in."  
  
"That's correct."  
  
"Actually, it was my understanding that there were ~several~ analyses done," Danvers eyed her warily. "Is that not correct, Commissioner?"  
  
"Yes, that's right. But-"  
  
"Well what could you expect to find now that wasn't found then? Assuming, of course, the job your people did was thorough?" he lifted his brow as if in question. Gordon caught sight of Landry's wide smile, and she resisted the urge to backhand the smarmy grin off the man's face.  
  
"We did our standard checks, which are several notches above the federal health department's scans," her voice was steady. "What we think we're dealing with is a delayed reactant - something that is triggered only when exposed to a certain temperature, for example. None of the patients affected ate their meat raw, which leads us to believe the delayed theory is sound - what we scanned, after all, was raw meat."  
  
"That is easy enough to remedy," the mayor shrugged. "Get a sample from GMP's stores, cook it and then analyze it. If you find anything, we will pull the products off the shelves and close the plant down faster than you can say filet mignon."  
  
"Mr. Mayor, that's ~not~ going to be good enough. While we're sitting around roasting a piece of chicken, thousands more might become infected."  
  
"I don't think so, Commissioner," Danvers replied. "As Mr. Landry mentioned, he has recently eaten meat supplied by GMP and has suffered no ill effects. I practically live on the chili from Stu's Diner downtown, and the only thing troubling my sleep is a nagging case of heartburn."  
  
"Did you have chili on the night in question, Mr. Mayor?"  
  
"Well . . . no," Danvers shifted in his seat. "I was out of town, at a conference in Philadelphia. I returned the following day." Ignoring her triumphant look, he continued. "I think . . . I think we must be cautious, not reactive, Commissioner. I've seen data that indicates the number of people who are actually affected is tapering off, though, as you point out, more and more are hurt each day. Yet, I don't think it's advisable to jump to conclusions."  
  
Danvers stood, and the other men followed suit. "Your people will test cooked product from GMP Inc. If anything, any pathogen, any odd bacterium, anything is found, meat from GMP will be removed citywide, and all of the plants will close - not just the flagship factory in the northeast sector. Until then, I suggest you and your staff keep your minds open to other possibilities."  
  
"Thank you, Mr. Mayor," Landry didn't bother hiding his pleased expression. "And, of course, Commissioner, we at GMP will cooperate in every way possible with your investigation."  
  
Gordon gave him a look that would have made the most hardened criminal lose bladder control. Landry's smile disappeared, and he shuddered under her wintry gaze.  
  
"Good day," she turned her chair toward the window, turning her back on all of them, the mayor included, sighing deeply when she heard the door open and then shut again, silence filling the space in which so much hot air had been.  
  
Barbara gazed out the window at the city - her city. She saw her officers decked in protective gear, some of them directing traffic, others stationed at crosswalks to ensure no drowsy Gothamite wandered out into the paths of oncoming vehicles. They were all doing the best they could, and still it was a mess. And, if the beaurocracy had its way, a mess it would remain.  
  
Her vidphone rang, and she allowed her thoughts to wander a moment more before punching up the image of a gloomy, steely faced Bruce Wayne.  
  
"Barbara."  
  
"You've heard," she shook her head in barely suppressed amusement. "Where is he?"  
  
"Outside."  
  
Gordon glanced over her shoulder at the seemingly clear skyline. She smiled wanly; she couldn't see Terry, but she could sense him - remnants of her old Batgirl training, she supposed.  
  
"Much as I hate to admit it, Danvers is right, you know," Barbara said. "We're grasping. And as slick as Landry is, we may never be able to pin this on the stuff coming out of GMP."  
  
"We'll find something. But we've got to get people off the meat for awhile, not only is it a possible danger, but it's possible evidence."  
  
Barbara frowned slightly. It'd been decades since both of them had retired their suits, and he was still issuing orders. And what was worse, she was agreeing with him.  
  
"McAllister has Danvers in his back pocket; everyone knows that," Barbara said. "And I truly believe that even if we do find something, McAllister would push to keep it under wraps, and Danvers wouldn't hesitate to do it."  
  
"I know. So we'll have to circumvent that. Somehow."  
  
"I'm listening."  
  
"Well . . . do you still have that contact at WGTHM?"  
  
Barbara's frown became fiercer, as she realized what Wayne was getting at. "Are you suggesting that I call up the local television station and leak this information to the Web? Because if you are -"  
  
"Everyone knows McAllister and the mayor went to see you. It's been reported in the news already that people fell ill after eating," Bruce cocked his head. "Leaks happen. How do you think I get most of ~my~ information?"  
  
"Bruce, if I do this, Danvers will have Internal Affairs down here before I can blink. Then nothing will get done."  
  
"People need to know what's going on," the elderly man's voice was low. "They can't depend on the people they elected to be honest with them. You said yourself that you are responsible for every life in this city."  
  
"I am."  
  
"Then act like it." Bruce's voice was hard. "Do what you know to be right."  
  
Barbara glared at the screen, wondering why she could never quite muster up enough righteous anger and tell Wayne just where he could stick his advice. Perhaps it was the same reason that she continued to allow him and his young protégé to interfere in police business or the same reason that she could never seem to convince him that he needed to completely let go of the past - all of it. Who was she to tell him to do that when she couldn't do it herself?  
  
Staring into Bruce's clear blue eyes, Barbara allowed herself a moment of reflection. The deeply buried part of her that kept the memory of Batgirl alive still loved and respected Bruce Wayne, and always would. Sometimes, against her better judgment, she let that part of her guide her actions.  
  
And now, she knew, she was about to let it guide her again.  
  
"Seems there are a few places in the city that aren't getting product from GMP's main plant," she said. "Namely the southwest parts of the city. I thought you both might want to know that."  
  
Bruce nodded, hiding a smile. Terry's home and Hamilton Hill High were both in the city's southwest section. "Thank you, Barbara."  
  
"Right," Gordon muttered. "Don't mention it."  
  
She cut the link, and turned to gaze out the window again, circling just in time to see the Batmobile cut across the sky. She thought of Sam, tucked away in Lauderhill, wide-eyed and exhausted, slowly and constantly barraged by images too horrible to contemplate or describe. She saw, in her mind's eye, the hundreds of thousands of others who were, too, being slowly consumed by their inner demons, powerless to stop or control them.  
  
Barbara turned away from window, and, after checking to ensure the door was firmly shut and locked, reached for her cellphone, dialing quickly.  
  
"Hello, Mark? Yes, it's me . . . Hmm, yes, I can imagine," Barbara again glanced at the door. "Well . . . yes, as a matter of fact, I do. . . uh-huh . . . right. Off the record. You'd better fire up your notebook, Mark. You're about to get an exclusive."  
  
Relaxing in her chair, Gordon's eye fell on her father's picture. Behind the frame, he seemed to be winking at her in approval, urging her to be strong, to lead her people, and, above all, to remain calm. Calm.  
  
  
  
~*~  
  
  
  
"I can't believe this. It's meat that's making all these people nutty? Meat?"  
  
"Looks that way," Terry leaned heavily against the locker next to Max's, his eyes red-rimmed and heavy with fatigue. "All of it came from that meat plant that was broken into."  
  
"Yeah, that's what the newsguys said on that special bulletin after sixth period. But it seems too strange, you know? Meat . . . it's just so random." Max glanced around at students shuffling listlessly through the strangely empty halls as the final bell rang. Though more than a quarter of the student body was missing, Principal Nakamura, with the blessing of the School Board, managed to keep the high school open for the few students who were managing to stay awake.  
  
"Yeah, it is . . . but at least now people know to keep clear of it for awhile," He ran a hand tiredly over his hair. "Some of it is still out there somewhere. This is going to get uglier than you can believe."  
  
"Maybe it's just a scam. I don't trust that "anonymous officials" rap. It sounds like they're reaching - telling us one thing when they know it's another. Or don't know at all - and that's even worse."  
  
"No . . . this is the real deal," Terry smiled slightly, knowing, via Bruce, that Barbara Gordon was the "unnamed source." She seemed to fear nothing and no one. Whether it was a relic of her past with Wayne or something that she'd had within her all along, Terry wasn't sure. More likely, it was a little of both. "Trust me. I mean, this is Gotham. It's too crazy not to be true."  
  
"Weird," she extracted her jacket from the depths of her locker and slid it on. "I thought the cops tested that stuff. If something was there, wouldn't it have registered?"  
  
"Yeah, but it might've only worked when the meat was cooked," Terry jammed his hands in his pockets as they walked toward the exit. "The police ran through it as-was. But still, it seems like they should have found something."  
  
"You don't look as sure as you sound."  
  
He exhaled slowly, halting at the second landing. "I'm not. And if the old guy is right about all this, then this is all ~my~ fault."  
  
"And how do you figure ~that~?"  
  
"I was ~there~, Max," Terry's eyes blazed. "I was screwing around and showing off, and they got away. If I had followed them -"  
  
"Then you would have been blown to Bat bits, and this city would ~really~ be in trouble."  
  
"Maybe I could've spotted the bomb, disarmed it. And then maybe we'd be getting some answers now."  
  
"Ter, you're trying."  
  
"That's not good enough," he said softly. And it wasn't. Not when Matt was afraid to close his eyes even for a few moments. Not when his mother couldn't go to work for fear of leaving Matt alone. Not when people were walking into walls and taking uppers just to stay awake and seem normal.  
  
No, ~trying~ was definitely not good enough. Especially not for the Batman.  
  
"Don't beat yourself up over it, McGinnis. It's done," Max laid a hand on his shoulder. "Now we've got to figure out how to get it undone."  
  
"Well . . . Wayne's got a couple of things he wants me to check, including GMP's corporate offices in Burnley. Maybe something'll pan out there."  
  
"Sounds like a plan. Hey - that download of the guys in the break-in. You still got it?"  
  
"Uh . . . yeah," he searched his jacket pocket and removed the disc. "But I don't think it'll do us much good at this point."  
  
"You never know," she took the disc and put it into her pocket. "I'll give it a look. Maybe we'll get lucky."  
  
"Maybe," he looked unconvinced. "Anyway, you got time for a fizz? I could use the caffeine boost."  
  
"Sorry. I promised Jared I'd bring his homework and hang with him awhile."  
  
"Oh." Terry frowned. He hadn't noticed Jared's absence from school that day, but then, there had been so many people out that it was those who were there that attracted the most attention. "How's he doing?"  
  
The pink-haired girl shook her head. "More or less the same. Maybe even a little worse. He's keeping a huge can of bug spray near his bed now."  
  
"Bug spray? Why?" he thought a moment. "Oh . . . right. The earthworms."  
  
"I've given up trying to reason with him," she shrugged. "All I can do now is be there for him - I figure it's the least I can do - I can't even begin to understand any of this."  
  
Terry smiled, knowing that her sentiment held true for him, as well. From the minute Max had discovered his secret, she'd done what she could to make life a little easier for him, though she couldn't possibly know what it was to be the Batman or what drove him to patrol the city night after night, putting his life on the line without a second thought. There were times when she shook her head in disbelief at his activities, and there were other times he could tell that she was frightened for him. But she never judged him - she was always there whenever he needed her, and even when he thought he didn't need her. Now, she was lending a bit of that same unwavering support to Jared.  
  
Terry snuck a glance at Max in profile, his eyes furtively traveling the length of her tall, athletic form and rested on her mile-long legs. She was clad in her usual outfit of form-fitting shirt and second-skin black pants, which outlined legs any dancer would have killed for. They were shapely yes, but also certain. Max was one of the most sure-footed individuals he'd ever met - outrunning her was not an easy task, he knew, and that served her in good stead, especially when she "tagged" along on some of his missions. Jared, he thought idly, can't possibly know how lucky he was to have Max in his corner.  
  
"I guess I'd better get going," she said, zipping her jacket to her chin. "It's almost four . . . he starts slipping under about then."  
  
"You need a ride? Jared's place is on my way."  
  
"Ooooh . . . you have the Brucemobile today? Schwaaay. I've been dying for a ride, but I don't know if Jared's block is zoned for super-stretch limos."  
  
"Sorry to disappoint, but I just have the Terry two-wheeler," he pointed to his scooter. "But it's just as fast and twice as stylish."  
  
"Thanks, but I don't think so," she said, smoothing down her pink locks. "The wind-swept look doesn't really work for me. So, I'll talk to you later."  
  
"All right. And Max, if you find anything, ~anything~ on that disc, ~call~ me," he gave her his best Bruce Wayne "serious" stare. "I don't want you going on one of your solo exploring missions. Got me?"  
  
"Terry, will you relax?" her expression registered exasperation. "I'll be a good little non-sidekick. Besides, I'll probably have my hands full with Jared tonight. See you." Max bounded down the stairs, joining a stream of students walking to the nearest transport station.  
  
He watched her leave, a slight frown on his face. He couldn't say why, but ~that~ wasn't what he expected to hear. And, what was more, he wasn't sure he liked it.  
  
~*~  
  
"So what's the plan for tonight? A little visit to Burnley? Or the regular patrol?" Terry spoke softly into his cellphone as the elevator opened on his level, and he walked toward the McGinnis home.  
  
"Both."  
  
"You're getting predictable. I ~knew~ you were going to say that."  
  
"So I guess you also know that the Batmobile has been in stealth behind the storefront down the street, waiting for you."  
  
"I'll get it in a couple of minutes. I just want to check in with Mom and see how Matt's doing. I'll call you from the car." He swiped his keycard, and the door slid open.  
  
"Mom? It's me," he walked quietly though the living room, dropping his backpack on a nearby chair. The apartment was still and oddly dark. "Mom?"  
  
Terry's brows knit above concerned blue eyes as he moved into kitchen. Scanning the room for a note and finding none, he leaned against the counter, thinking. He knew his mother had taken Matt to Gotham Mercy earlier in the day, but they'd left before Terry had gone to school - he expected them to be back well before his return. But then, if the newscasts were any indication, the wait times at the local hospitals were outrageous.  
  
Reaching into the refrigerator for a Zesti, Terry was greeted with the sight of a packaged ham. Looking at the ham, he was seized by a sudden inspiration and a sudden anger. He grabbed the package and brought it to his nose, sniffing experimentally. And though he discerning no strange smell, he nevertheless tossed it into the garbage.  
  
Opening the freezer, Terry pulled out frozen burgers, hot dogs and chicken breasts - all found their way into the trash can. He went to the refrigerator again, shunting things aside, looking for any other meats. He found a half-thawed Cornish game hen, a spoiling package of bacon and a piece of breakfast sausage. They all came in, and the bacon and sausage went into the garbage. Terry paused with the chicken in his hand, looking at it thoughtfully.  
  
"Terry?"  
  
He whirled, startled. His mother stood in the kitchen doorway, a suitcase in her hand. "Honey, what are you doing?"  
  
"Uh, just cleaning up a little, you know, just trying to help out," Terry hid the poultry behind his back. "I didn't think anyone was home. Is Matt in his room?"  
  
"He's at the hospital. They've decided to keep the younger ones for observation - they seem to be the ones most affected."  
  
Terry's heart sank. "What are they going to do?"  
  
"They said they'd run tests - they weren't specific. I came to get a few of his things." Mary smiled wanly. "There's so little room at the hospital that he's sharing a room with eight other boys - two of them are from his Scout troop. It's almost like a big camp."  
  
"Mom . . . why don't you get some rest," the shadows underneath his mother's eyes alarmed him. "I can take the things to Matt. You need some sleep."  
  
Mary shook her head. "On the news, they're saying that all this may have been caused by some sort of food-poisoning."  
  
"Yeah," he muttered, feeling the chicken melting in his hands. "I think I heard something about that. Something about spoiled meat."  
  
"The doctors say it's almost impossible that it's that," she drew her hand across her brow. "I don't know. I just don't know what to believe . . ."  
  
At that moment, Terry was only half-listening, his eyes fixed on his mother's arm. A raised, red cut there wound its way from her wrist to her elbow. "Mom, what happened to your arm?"  
  
Mary dropped her arm, chagrined, attempting to cover it with the hem of her sweater. "That? Well . . . nothing, really. It was just an accident."  
  
"An accident? What kind of accident?" Terry moved closer. Mary was silent. "Mom?"  
  
"While we were waiting for a doctor, Matty fell asleep . . . he started having one of those dreams," she shuddered slightly. "He was tossing and thrashing, but I was having some trouble waking him up. A nurse saw us, and she came over to help me wake him." She went quiet for a time, toying with a stray thread on her sweater. "His eyes opened, but he seemed . . . he seemed like he wasn't ~awake~. Like he was sleeping, dreaming with his eyes open . . . and he was yelling about monsters. His eyes were open, and he saw us - the nurse and I - as the monsters killing your father," she looked at Terry, tears standing out at the corners of her eyes.  
  
"I tried to calm him down - I put my arm around him and . . . he lashed out. He kicked the nurse. And he . . . scratched me. He didn't mean to . . . he didn't understand that it was me. He thought I was the monster hurting Dad. That I was going to hurt him. He thought I wanted to hurt him. He didn't understand. . . He didn't recognize me. Matt looked like he was awake, but for a little while, he didn't know who I was . . . he still thought I was the monster . . ."  
  
Tears slid down her cheeks, and Terry, dropping the chicken, moved to envelop his mother in his arms, letting her sob out her frustration and fear against his chest. 


	5. Interlude Two

Second Interlude  
  
  
  
Rocky road ice cream. Mama had promised rocky-road ice cream - a double scoop, with extra sprinkles, and maybe, maybe even whipped cream on top. Lisa Anne Sloper, age 6, couldn't even remember the last time she tasted ~any~ ice cream, let alone her all-time favorite - and with sprinkles, too! And she would have some - Mama had promised - all she had to do was ~be good.~ Be good, and listen to the nice man and do what he said.  
  
Mama had made ~being good~ sound easy enough, and Lisa Anne was trying her best to sit still and listen, but she was so sleepy that she could barely keep her eyes open. It would have been nice to sleep, the little girl thought, especially in the chair she was sitting in. It was big, soft and puffy - like it was stuffed with clouds. It was the kind of chair a princess would have, she decided. A princess would sit on it, and maybe sleep on it, too, and stay sleeping until the handsome prince came to wake her up.  
  
Lisa Anne smiled for a moment. She liked playing princess; it was fun. It would be fun to play right then, while she was sitting in the big fluffy chair, sitting straight up and ~being good~. But she didn't want to close her eyes -- every time she did, the bad man would come. He'd come and start hitting and kicking Mama, making her eyes turn big and black and her lips fat and split, and her face mottled and blotchy like a pizza with much of the cheese torn away. Mama would cry and cry on the floor while the bad man hit and hit her, screaming at her to "be quiet, damn you!'' punctuating the foul words with savage kicks.  
  
After awhile, Mama ~would~ be quiet. Her tears stopped and the hands she used to protect her side would fall limply to the floor. She'd obey the bad man, and stop making noise, but he wouldn't stop hurting her. He'd keep kicking and hitting and punching until a little river of red snaked from Mama's open, swollen mouth, all the way through the living room and to the little cubby where Lisa Anne hid, trembling, watching, unable to close her ears to Mama's crying. But the sinister silence that stretched across the entire house was much, much worse. Mama lying still on the floor with the blood leaking out of her like air from a balloon frightened Lisa Anne much more than the crying had.  
  
But at least now the bad man had stopped hurting Mama. He stood looking down at her, breathing heavy, with sweat pouring down the back of his neck. The bad man seemed confused by the trail of crimson, and, turning his back on the still woman rumpled silent on the floor, he followed the path of blood through the living room, stopping when the trail stopped - at the little cubby. Lisa Anne would try to hold herself very still, believing that if she just tried hard enough, she could make herself almost invisible and as completely still as Mama was - she wouldn't utter a sound. But hard as she tried, the bad man always found her. He'd reach into the cubby and pull her out by the collar. He'd look at her and smile, but the smile never reached his eyes, making him look even scarier than he'd looked when he was beating Mama. He'd draw her close until they were almost nose-to-nose. The bad man was smiling the mean smile again and he was squeezing her arm painfully. ~Be good, little Lisa Anne, be good and close your eyes,~ he'd whisper, his breath hot and sour, like burned toast. She'd shiver, and close her eyes, hoping he'd go away then, but never did. He never went away. Not ever. He'd grip her arm tighter and curl his other hand into a tight fist, drawing it back slowly, on a level with her nose. He'd pause a minute, grinning madly, and then the fist would come down hot and hard, and the world would break into about a million pieces.  
  
And then there was darkness, stillness stretching out and curling all around her, like the legs of a dead spider. Silence.  
  
Lisa Anne couldn't remember much more than that, because suddenly the bad man would vanish and Mama would be there, by her side, telling the girl to hush, she'd only been having a nightmare. Lisa Anne, confused, would search the woman's face for bruises or cuts, and finding none, would be forced to take Mama's word for it that the bad man had never been in the house at all - it had all been just a dream. But if it was just a dream, why did Mama seem so scared? Why had they left their big, airy home to move into the little apartment with Grandma Emmy? Why did Mama insist on sleeping on a little cot in her room? Lisa Anne couldn't understand it, but she somehow knew that Mama was afraid of the bad man, too - even though Mama said she'd only been dreaming. At any rate, Lisa Anne was afraid to close her eyes, even when Mama promised to keep all the lights on. Lights wouldn't scare away the bad man, Lisa Anne believed. Nothing scared away the bad man, except . . . well, except when she kept her eyes open. The bad man didn't like that - he'd said so. So that is what Lisa Anne decided to do - she kept her eyes open as long as she could, fighting the pull of sleep, knowing that if she shut her eyes, even for a moment, the bad man would make his approach.  
  
Lisa Anne slouched a little in the downy chair, casting a glance to see if Mama had noticed. Mama didn't like her to slouch. ~It'll ruin your back~ she always said. ~Good girls always sit up straight.~ And Lisa Anne was trying so very hard to ~be good~. She so wanted the rocky road ice cream with the sprinkles. But it was so hard to sit up in the comfortable chair. It contoured to her small form, nearly enveloping her, inviting her to tarry a while and rest.  
  
The young girl looked over to the other side of the dark room, where Mama and the nice man were talking. Mama would glance at the young girl worriedly from time to time, and so would the nice man. His cherry-colored cheeks reminded Lisa Anne of the nose of Rudolph, the red-nosed reindeer. The nice man had a big belly, too, like Santa Claus, and his blue eyes twinkled a bit like jolly old St. Nick's. Lisa Anne remembered how the nice man had twinkled at her when he held her on his knew, splashing her face with a bit of nice, cool water from a big round bathtub in the middle of the floor. Lisa Anne had thought, to have a bathtub outside of the ~bathroom~.  
  
She had wanted to ask Mama about it, but then the nice man had made her drink some of the water from the bathtub, and Lisa Anne, surprised, had forgotten her question. At first, she resisted the nice man's efforts to make her drink, but then he'd smiled at her and told her to ~be good~ and drink - that if she did, the bad man would go away forever. The promise of the ice cream and the disappearance of the bad man danced in front of her eyes, and she obligingly drank the water, which was cool and nice. The nice man had picked her up then and put her in the fluffy chair, telling her what a ~good~ girl she had been. Then he'd gone to talk to Mama. Lisa Anne had been glad when the nice man had left her alone at last, for, though he spoke to her in soft, sweet tones and smiled at her a lot, he had a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes - kind of like the bad man from her dreams.  
  
The little girl shuddered. She wouldn't think about the bad man any more; she just wanted to stay in the fluffy chair and pretend she was a beautiful princess waiting for the handsome prince to come. Lisa Anne's eyelids fluttered, and she yawned again, burrowing deeper into the chair. Maybe if she closed her eyes just a ~little~ while, it would be okay. After all, ~everyone~ knew that a handsome prince expected to find a ~sleeping~ princess. So she'd close her eyes and ~pretend~ to sleep - but only for a little while - such bad thins happened whenever she closed her eyes . . .  
  
"Oh ~no~," Cinda Sloper turned in time to see Lisa Anne's blonde head slip down to the armrest. "I'd better wake her before she scares the whole neighborhood with her yelling." She started toward the little girl, but her companion stayed her arm.  
  
"Mrs. Sloper, it is all right,'' he murmured. "As I told you, young Lisa Anne has been cured of the horrendous visions. She is fine, and, I would think, exhausted from her ordeal. Let her sleep."  
  
"But . . . it's just that . . ." Cinda glanced helplessly at the little girl. "I want to believe it, sir, really I do, but nothing I've tried seems to help - I've taken her to the best doctors . . . and they can tell me nothing. I heard that Gotham Mercy was at least keeping younger children for observation, and that's where we were going when I had the misfortune to tap you with my car. Again, sir, I am so sorry - I was rushing . . . with Lisa Anne as she is, I haven't been able to sleep very well, either."  
  
"Apologies are not necessary, Mrs. Sloper. "I saw how desperate you were for help for young Lisa Anne," her companion replied. "And how strong your faith is, Mrs. Sloper. I could read that in every line of your expression. That's why I chose ~you~ and Lisa Anne to be among the first to come and receive my treatment. I knew that you would understand the importance of faith in healing the body and soul."  
  
"That, and I have nothing else to lose by trying your method. And Lisa Anne seemed to take to you," she smiled. "She's usually very shy around strangers."  
  
"Oh, I enjoy young people. They are, in my view, artwork in its purest form. And your Lisa Anne is a perfect example. What a vivid mind she has -- and a memory to match, as well."  
  
Cinda blushed at her companion's knowing look. "I still can't believe she remembers so much of her father's behavior to have such nightmares about it. She was so young - only three - when I left Gene for good. Such a brute he was . . . but luckily for me and Lisa Anne, he agreed to leave us alone . . . for the right price, of course."  
  
"Children remember more unpleasantness of that sort than one might think. Their minds are like sponges. But after today, you will not have to worry about Lisa Anne's being troubled by such images. Just look," he guided the woman toward the sleeping child. "She is slumbering quite peacefully . . . like a little angel."  
  
"My goodness . . . you're right," the woman gazed at her daughter in amazement. "She usually starts screaming by now." Cinda glanced sharply over her shoulder. "But how on earth can you know that she's all right?"  
  
"I have a power, Mrs. Sloper," came the reply. "It is a gift, really. Within my hands, within my soul is the power to ~heal~. And that, combined with your trust, and your faith, can drive an evil out. For only evil would disturb the innocent sleep of a child, correct? I have the power to dispel that evil, and that face," he pointed to Lisa Anne, "~that~ face is the face of one whose mind has been put at ease. My healing hands, Mrs. Sloper, have touched Lisa Anne. Your daughter has been saved. She is going to be . . . all right."  
  
Cinda was quiet for some moments. Then, "I believe you, but I 'm not sure ~why~ I believe you. I don't know you, sir, don't even know your name. Don't even know what possessed me to come up here, except maybe because I'm desperate."  
  
"And scared, I'd imagine."  
  
"Sure, I'm scared. Who wouldn't be, considering what's happened. This whole city's stone terrified."  
  
"With good reason. A great evil has descended upon Gotham; an evil that is tearing at the fabric of citizens' well-being and sanity. And there is nothing that can be done about it, no one that can help them. No one, except me, of course," he smiled, holding up one of his hands, palm- outward. "Except me."  
  
He grinned at Cinda's awed look. "But talk is, to be trite, cheap, Mrs. Sloper. Results are what you want to see, I know, so lets not delay any longer. Wake young Lisa Anne and view the transformation for yourself."  
  
Cinda hesitated, gnawing thoughtfully on her bottom lip. "Part of me wants to just let her sleep. She's so tired . . ."  
  
"Of course she is . . . and I can tell that you are, too, Mrs. Sloper. But I want to prove to you that I am not misleading you about my ability. I want to show you that you did not put your trust in me in vain. Please . . . wake her, and all shall become clear."  
  
"Well . . . all right," She leaned close to Lisa Anne's ear, stroking the girl's downy blonde braids. "Sweet pumpkin . . . it's Mama. It's time to wake up, baby."  
  
Lisa Anne shifted, murmuring softly. Cinda glanced worriedly up at her companion. He nodded encouragingly, urging her on.  
  
"Sweetie, wake up now," she gently shook the girl's arm. "Lisa Anne? Can you hear me? It's Mama."  
  
Cinda smiled slightly as she saw the green eyes flutter open. "Hi, sweetie. Are you all right?"  
  
Lisa Anne blinked rapidly at the overhead light shining directly into the girl's eyes, hurting them. "Mama?"  
  
"Yes baby, it's me," Cinda stooped beside the chair. "Did you have a nice nap?" Cinda's heart leapt joyfully at Lisa Anne's nod. "You . . . you ~did~?"  
  
"I was dreaming . . . I was a princess," Lisa Anne's voice was drowsy. "I was in a big castle in the clouds . . . and I had a gazillion pretty dresses and so many dollies I couldn't play with them all." The girl yawned widely. "It was so pretty . . . I wish I could be a ~real~ princess. It would be so nice . . . wouldn't it, Mama?"  
  
"Yes, baby . . . it would," Emotion clouded Cinda's voice as she wrapped her daughter in her arms. "It sure would . . ." The tears flowed freely, racing down her face in crystal streaks.  
  
Lisa Anne hugged her mother uncertainly, wondering if she had, somehow, managed to ~be good~ enough for the ice cream. She meant to ask Mama about it - but she was so ~tired~ and Mama had woken her from such a nice dream. "Mama . . . I'm so tired," Lisa Anne yawned again. "Want to take a nap . . . please?"  
  
Cinda stood with Lisa Anne still clasped in her arms, her face surprisingly radiant in her exhaustion. "Can it be true? Is she going to be all right . . . for good? I mean . . . whatever you've done . . . it won't wear off? Should I bring her to you again if she starts having the dreams again, or -- "  
  
Her companion shook his head slowly. "There will be no more of ~those~ dreams. On this, you have my word. She is cured, Mrs. Sloper. She is cured."  
  
Cinda Sloper adjusted Lisa Anne in her arms, kissing the top of her daughter's head. "Sir, I don't have the words to thank you. Not even the doctors . . . when they tried to make her sleep, gave her their medicines and shots, she'd wake up screaming as if someone were trying to kill her. I truly . . . you are . . . a miracle worker," Cinda's voice was appropriately awed. "Never in my life have I ~ever~ seen . . . I mean, my grandmamma talked about faith healers - people like you -- but I always thought that was a bunch of silliness- But I'm blathering. I'm so sorry . . . I'm just . . . overjoyed," Cinda fumbled at her purse. "You must allow me to pay you ~something~. I insist -"  
  
"Your grandmother was wise beyond her years," he replied with a wink. "And as for thanks . . . well, gratitude is, of course, enough. But, Mrs. Sloper, there is something you can do for me . . ."  
  
"~Anything~. Anything at all," Cinda smiled at Lisa Anne's quiet snores. "Anything."  
  
"Well," the round man walked toward her, holding out a sheaf of yellow- tinged cards. "Your Lisa Anne is in school . . . a private one, I would gather?"  
  
"Why yes. She attends Syares Prep."  
  
"And, I imagine, there are many young ones - and their parents, too - who are as troubled in their sleep as Lisa Anne was?"  
  
"Plenty," Cinda nodded. "As a matter of fact, her school's been closed to keep . . . whatever it is going on from spreading."  
  
"Well then . . . Lisa Anne's recovery will be a revelation to them all. They'll wish to know, I'm sure, how it was done. Please give these cards to any and all that ask," He placed them in her purse. "I wish to offer my services to any who needs them . . . but my little group is a rather modest one. We do not have the resources to advertise via the media. But even if we did, well, I wouldn't want it . . . there is no more effective advertisement than Lisa Anne as she is now."  
  
"Why, sir, I'd be happy to," Cinda beamed. "I think it is so wonderful that you're putting yourself out like this, to help -"  
  
"My only wish is to help," he replied. "I am only following my calling in that regard. And I hope to avail more of the city to my healing abilities."  
  
"You shall, if I have anything to say about it," Cinda said. "I have contacts at WGTHM, and I will ensure that they have a news crew out here post-haste. If I have anything to say about it, this entire city will know your name," she paused with a slight scowl. "And, er, what exactly, ~is~ your name?"  
  
Chaise Merrill smiled benevolently. "My name? Call me, my dear lady, call me . . . the Healer."  
  
~*~ 


End file.
